Your Brother's Eye
by Hans the bold
Summary: Now Chapter 95 has Erik and the twins singing Elvis tunes to one another. Oh, and that fine gentleman Kevin is still beating up Lucy...
1. Won't You Be My Neighbor?

Hans the bold famous saying #139 says that you should always be willing to engage in polite debate and conversation with people who you emphatically disagree with, since doing so can help you think about what you believe and why it is different from what they believe. This is the ultimate origin of this story, which came about after I engaged in such a debate for a few days on the posting board of an extremely conservative and literalist Christian web page. Then, of course, those wicked 7th Heaven posters (particularly that dastardly Lire) over at Television Without Pity (http://www.televisionwithoutpity.com/) got me to thinking about how the culture of preachy, extremely literal Christianity might interact with the culture of preachy, trendy conservative Christianity we see on 7th Heaven. This whole internet thing has made me such a naughty boy, hasn't it?  
  
As usual, the Camdens and most of the citizens of Glenoak (as well as Glenoak itself) are the intellectual property of Brenda Hampton and associated Hollywood big shots. The Shaws, in all their special glory, however, belong to me.  
  
  
Chapter One: Won't You Be My Neighbor?  
* * *  
  
"Your husband is a Minister, yes?"  
  
It began, innocently enough, with these words and a visit for tea.  
  
Some backstory first, though. A small town in California, pleasant and the sort of place you might think of as being typical in its Americana. Wide streets, shaded with trees, winding and lined with pleasant, multistoried homes. Local schools and local kids, a little racial mixing, but not too much. A few churches, at least one synagogue, an unobtrusive mosque somewhere. An open air mall where teenagers would meet for pizza, and a popular pool hall and a hamburger place and an even more popular ice cream spot. Just out of town, there was a place where teenagers sometimes went to park their cars and kiss, and not far away was a larger city with an international airport that also had regular connections to Buffalo, New York and Phoenix, Arizona.  
  
But let us return to the tea.  
  
It is a custom among traditional Americans for ladies who are neighbors to share. It's a good custom, and in days past it helped draw families together, created communities out of neighborhoods, and it helped to teach children values of respect, both for their elders and for each other. They would play together and their mothers would watch them, and when the men returned from work they would sometimes meet and chat with the other men of the neighborhood. On holidays there would often be neighborhood parties with food and conversation and gossip.  
  
These practices have changed somewhat in recent years, for a lot of reasons that are themselves good and not so good, change being the nature of the human condition. But it is still possible to find them, if you look. Americans are, by and large, a tolerant and neighborly culture, even though it can be argued that they work too much for ephemeral things like larger houses and newer cars and products that have been praised by overly erotic advertisements. They still recognize the good things about neighborhoods, about neighbors, and about meeting and knowing your neighbors.  
  
Hence, on this bright early autumn day in Glenoak, California, Annie Camden welcomed her newest neighbor into her home. And yes, it was for tea.  
  
#  
  
Rebecca Shaw was, like Annie Camden, a wife and a mother. She, like Annie, was well into middle age, and though her hair was darker than Annie's, it was still far from black. They shared as well an interest in maintaining a good home, an interest in their husbands, a deep and abiding love of their children. More than this, though, each of these two women possessed a deep love of God, evidenced in Rebecca's case by a small golden cross that always hung from a thin chain around her neck, resting against the feminine ruffles of the blouses and dresses she favored.  
  
It is, in fact, not tea but rather this love of God that brings us to our story.  
  
The Shaws were new neighbors to the Camdens. Edward Shaw was a computer network administrator, originally from Iowa. His specialty was designing websites, and he was quite skilled at his job. It was this work that had brought him to Glenoak, which in addition to its various unspecified local industries was close enough to Silicon Valley to attract the firm he worked for. And as her husband went, so Rebecca and the children followed, arriving and unloading their possessions into the large house directly across the street from the home of the Camdens.  
  
Rebecca smoothed her skirt beneath her as she sat now in the Camden kitchen, the evermentioned tea steaming in its small cup before her, and she smiled as Annie sat to face her.  
  
"Sugar?" Annie asked, extending a ceramic bowl to her guest.  
  
"Please," answered Rebecca. She spooned some into her tea, stirred it.  
  
"I'm sorry the house is a bit of a mess," Annie told her. She was a bit intimidated that she herself wasn't better dressed; where Rebecca was immaculate in a white, ruffled blouse and dark, pleated skirt, Annie wore a pair of loose jeans and an old sweatshirt. She had been intending to do some work in the garage apartment today.  
  
Rebecca smiled. "Oh," she said, her voice quite soft, "that's all right. I'm afraid my home is quite unpresentable just now, with the move and all." She sighed softly. "I've got my work cut out for me, haven't I?"  
  
Annie smiled back. "I remember when we first moved in here. There were dozens of things I had to fix, and Ruthie was just a baby. Thank goodness Eric was so willing to help."  
  
Rebecca nodded, took a sip of her tea. "A good husband is truly a gift from God. Perhaps Eric might be so kind as to come over some time and have a look at our second upstairs bathroom? There's a stain on the floor and we're worried that there might be a leak in one of the pipes. I do hate to call a plumber; you know how expensive they are."  
  
Annie chuckled. "Eric wouldn't be much help, I'm afraid. He's positively inept with anything mechanical. I've done some plumbing myself, though. Would you like me to take a look?"  
  
A silence settled over the room and the two women regarded one another. Then Rebecca spoke again.  
  
"Oh, that's quite all right. I'm sure you're awfully busy. I can call a plumber."  
  
Annie nodded. This was actually something of a relief, since she had a lot to do here at home. But it had seemed neighborly to make the offer.  
  
"So," she said then, "how many children do you have?"  
  
Rebecca smiled, her face beaming. "Eight, praise God. Four fine sons and four lovely daughters. Edward likes to compare us to that old TV show, the one with eight children and that wonderfully funny father. Who was that?"  
  
"I think the actor was Dick van Patten," Annie said.  
  
"Of course. I haven't watched that sort of television since I found Christ. It's all so wicked these days, except of course for the Christian programming."  
  
Annie sipped at her own tea. "That's true," she said. "I do sometimes worry about what my kids see. It's a shame there isn't a good family values type of show out there."  
  
Rebecca nodded forcefully.  
  
"Your husband is a Minister, yes?" she asked.  
  
"Yes. At the Glenoak Community Church."  
  
"How noble a calling. I wish sometimes that Edward had chosen the ministry, but of course it isn't my place to question his choice of careers. And what he does can minister the word of God, too, don't you think? He and I maintain a web site to tell the world about the Truth of Christ Jesus."  
  
Annie didn't answer now. Her own experiences online had not been so good. She remembered the time she and Eric had been chatting romantically over the internet, only to have their private conversation intercepted by a group of teenagers. She had put her foot down after that, and had banned the internet from their home. Considering all the pornography and liberal webpages out there, it was not a decision she regretted making.  
  
"Well," she said instead, "The ministry is a fine calling. Our daughter Lucy is studying to become a Minister."  
  
Rebecca raised a brow. "Oh? How old is she?"  
  
"Twenty. She's a lovely girl. Eric and I are so proud of her."  
  
If she expected a smile, Annie would be disappointed. Rebecca's face was expressionless now, as she finished her tea.  
  
"Is the ministry such a good idea?" she asked. "If she's twenty, shouldn't she be looking for a husband?"  
  
Annie chucked, but it was a bit forced. She said something then about how Lucy was indeed working very hard at that too, and Rebecca smiled a bit and after a little more small talk Annie invited her new neighbor and her family to come to the Glenoak Community Church that coming Sunday. This restored the full smile to Rebecca's face, a smile that broadened as the twins wandered into the kitchen and Annie was able to proudly introduce her youngest children to her.  
  
"Oh, aren't you two just precious?" Rebecca beamed.  
  
The twins babbled something incoherent together.  
  
Rebecca left a short time later with a promise that if it was all right with Edward she would bring her family to services on Sunday. Annie smiled after she had left, humming softly to herself as she picked up after the twins and cleaned the kitchen and living room. She found that she liked Rebecca; it would be good to have a good Christian family in the neighborhood, good to have some kids that Ruthie and the twins could get to know and play with. Though this was a good neighborhood, the residents were mostly older or professionals without children, like Larry and Tom next door, and she had often wished that Matt, Mary, Lucy and Simon had been able to play with someone other than their siblings as they were growing up. Eight children, did Rebecca say?  
  
By the time Eric, Robbie, Lucy, Simon and Ruthie got home from their work and school, Annie had still not made it out to the garage apartment, but dinner was ready and she found herself feeling really good about things.  
  
All from a chat over a cup of tea. She looked forward to Sunday. 


	2. Brown Boxes

Chapter Two: Brown Boxes  
* * *  
  
By the end of the week, garbage day in Glenoak, a large and conspicuous pile of empty brown boxes had accumulated on the curb in front of the Shaw house. They were marked, as moving boxes tend to be, with brief descriptions of their former contents and the names of the people to whom those contents belonged. From this collection of boxes, then, an archaeologist could, were he or she so inclined, construct a list that named the occupants of the Shaw house, and which could also assign to them a hierarchy of relative importance, based on the frequency of names, the sizes of the boxes, and most importantly what the boxes were said to contain. That no archaeologist was practicing in Glenoak that week means only that such a study was never done, not that it couldn't have been.  
  
Edward -- Fishing things.  
  
Virginia -- Dolls and dollhouse.  
  
Franklin -- Stamp collection, rock collection.  
  
Rebecca -- Kitchen utensils, pots and pans.  
  
Edward -- Computer things.  
  
Rebecca -- Cleaning things.  
  
Barry -- Toys.  
  
Edward -- Gunsmithing and cartridge loading tools.  
  
Samantha and Ellen -- Clothes and shoes.  
  
Rebecca -- Vacuum cleaner.  
  
And so on and so on. There were many boxes.  
  
Across the street, the Camdens watched their new neighbors moving in with tremendous interest. They liked to watch things, these Camdens did, being possessed, each of them, of a most astonishing curiosity. Some might argue, in fact, that for the Camdens the eventual discovery of whatever it was they were watching was actually a disappointment; that in fact it was the watching itself that thrilled them. However this may be, their constant watching did have the benefit of keeping the neighborhood safe, since in the small town of Glenoak news traveled fast and people knew that when you went through the Camden neighborhood you were very likely to be under their scrutiny.  
  
If the Shaws had heard of this, however, they gave no notice.  
  
They were, of course, busy. Despite his well paying job, or more likely because of it, Edward Shaw spent long hours at his office, longer still just now because he was getting moved in there as well. He was, therefore, gone early and home late, and when he came home it was only with great effort that he found time to play a bit with his younger children and exchange a few words with his older ones. Of the younger there was Virginia, aged eleven, a shy but pretty girl whose long, smooth hair was brushed a hundred times by her mother and then tied back with a silk ribbon every night before bed, Barry, aged six, a boundless whirl of energy with a fondness for battling imaginary enemies with toy guns and swords, and the twin girls Samantha and Ellen, each aged sixteen. These two were fraternal twins (if your humble narrator may be allowed to use such a term with respect to girls), and though they shared with each other in all things such as clothes and mundane possessions, they were not much alike at all. Samantha had a natural, fragile beauty, her face smooth and white like a china doll and her form slender and just beginning to show the curves of womanhood. Ellen was a bit shorter but not enough to warrant a separate wardrobe, possessed of dark eyes and an intensity that she had inherited from her father, as well as the occasional bout with pimples that is normal for teens but which always seemed to pass her twin sister by. Ellen of them all most loved to work with her hands, and her hands were well suited to work, being strong, her fingers shorter than those of her sister, a fact that in her most private moments she found somewhat distressing.  
  
Franklin was fifteen, and he was the youngest of the eldest. This was not a description provided by age, of course, but rather by gender. Since the departure of his elder two brothers (the second born, named Joshua, and the third, named Peter) one into the military and the other into marriage, he had been told by his parents that it was his place to watch over his sisters and brothers, to set an example for them of what a good young man should be. He tried as best he could with this, his eyes always looking to his father for that nearly invisible nod of approval that to Edward Shaw was the only appropriate sign of positive emotion regularly permitted to a man.  
  
That brings us to seven. Of the eighth, the eldest, there is little to be said of her here save that she no longer lived with her family, and that she had married.  
  
Not all of this, of course, was immediately known by the Camdens or their quasi-adopted son. They too were a large family, with the seven natural children and the one they had taken on. We have seen the twins already, old enough to talk but not showing a strong desire to do so, and we have all heard of Ruthie, who was moving quickly into her teens now and with it what was to the Camdens the celebrated excitement of menarche, and who among the Camdens the curiosity gene had most manifested itself; a tall order indeed. Simon, in high school now, keeping to himself and the company of his close friend Morris, and then Lucy, who Annie had described to Rebecca during their visit over tea. Lucy attended the local college, which was, for reasons unknown to the population of Glenoak and the world at large, called Crawford. Of the eldest two Camden children, the son was married and in medical school at a prestigious university in New York, with a full scholarship whose origins are uncertain, and the daughter was a flight attendant on the busy Buffalo to Big-City-Near-Glenoak corridor. How she, as very much a junior flight attendant, had landed such a prestigious route remains a mystery. We can perhaps just say that fate had always smiled down on the Camden children.  
  
Robbie, of course, was not a Camden by blood but very much one by disposition. He had once proposed marriage to their eldest daughter and had also once attempted to seduce her in a disreputable motel on the outskirts of Glenoak, and later he and daughter Lucy had engaged in a short-lived affair that primarily involved rock-paper-scissors games as well as wet and passionate kissing in every convenient location around the house and points nearby. Ruthie had also made her romantic interest in him clear, several times, apparently being less than aware of the significant difference in their ages. Despite his amorous involvement with at least two of the Camden daughters, Robbie was a good student and for a time had been the most talented homeless student in Glenoak, at which point Eric Camden had brought him home, and after which point he had never left.  
  
This is what the Shaws, had they been like the Camdens with that undying curiosity, would have quickly learned. They did not right away, of course, since they were of a different disposition, and learning who other people really were was not a high priority for them.  
  
For us who follow this story from afar, the admittedly brief descriptions above serve to complete our introduction to the main characters of the drama that was to come. Of the events of those days, ending as Friday came and with it the large pile of boxes disappearing with the garbage truck, we can say quickly that Eric Camden worked on his sermon and various affairs at his church, that Annie Camden tended the twins and her home, never quite reaching her goal of working on the unfinished garage apartment, and that her other children were kept busy with their schooling. Across the street, Edward Shaw worked long hours at his new office while Rebecca Shaw unpacked and organized their new home with the help of her children, who could sometimes be seen by the curious Camdens, playing in their yard, but who were not seen otherwise, even at the impressive facilities of the Glenoak public school system. 


	3. Oh, Sunday, What A Day

Chapter Three: Oh, Sunday, What A Day  
* * *  
  
For the Camden household, Sunday mornings were a time of a well planned yet frantic ritual. This should not be a surprise to the gentle reader, for the Camdens liked to set themselves as a model example for their community, both in terms of piety and charity, and most importantly in terms of family values and love. In this they had always been at least in part successful, despite the periodic scandals that would have unseated most other families from a position of such high honor. Perhaps because none of these scandals (including the destruction of public property by one daughter and the association of another with a drug informant, as well as a thick file with restraining orders and stalking reports kept on the oldest son) had managed to shake the Camden family's perception of itself, most members of their church, at least, still held them in high regard.  
  
And so the ritual was justified, at least in the minds of Eric and Annie Camden.  
  
It began early. Eric would rise, shower, shave and dress, and even as Annie roused the children he would depart for the Glenoak Community Church to prepare for the weekly ritual of prayer and community that is common among Christians, and that is, in the vernacular language common to American English, typically and simply called "church". This would of course include a sermon, and since Eric Camden was a thoughtful, genuine man at heart, these sermons would frequently be found to be moving by members of his congregation.  
  
Annie, meanwhile, would make certain that the children were properly dressed and prepared, that the boys were in nice slacks and ties and that the girls were in pretty dresses. As they had aged, the older Camden children had fallen into the habit of double-checking the younger ones, a habit that had over time extended well past the simple ritual of dressing for church to include direction and control of even the most intimate aspects of life. And when this morning ritual was completed, the remaining Camden clan would proceed to the church where their father awaited them and all the Godfearing citizens of Glenoak in the robes of his priestly office, and the Camdens would take their customary seats in the first row, where they would piously take on the role of the most righteous family in the small town of Glenoak, California and regions beyond.  
  
And so it was today, excepting that in this latter category of piety and righteousness there were, as well, the newly arrived Shaws, who sat further back in the pews.  
  
"Let us pray," Eric said.  
  
The congregation grew silent, lowered their heads.  
  
"Bless us, oh, Lord, to find strength in our community and our nation, to reach out the hand of friendship to our neighbors, to share with them of your bounty."  
  
The mention of neighbors was deliberate, not accidental, and yes, it was directed at the Shaws. Annie, you see, had told Eric about her new friend, and about the new family across the street, and Eric had felt inspired to welcome them, as Christians have long and often done, into the community of which he felt he was the spiritual leader. And so he preached that day on the words of Jesus, that you should love your neighbors and that you should reach out to them with charity and love and forgiveness.  
  
A good sermon, it was. A good message, too, followed by a very public welcome to the Shaws, who all smiled and accepted the welcomes and blessings of the other members of the congregation with kindness and gratitude. And as he closed the service that day, Eric made his usual announcements about church business before concluding with a brief appeal to his congregation to support a charity whose purpose was to provide access to education for Afghan women, a favorite cause of Annie's.  
  
#  
  
This was not the end of the day, of course; indeed, more interesting events were to come. As the church emptied Annie made it a point to intercept Rebecca, her children wisely trailing behind her.  
  
"So glad you could come," she said to her friend.  
  
Rebecca smiled. "It was a pleasure, Annie. May I introduce you to my husband, Edward?"  
  
The man looked at Annie for a few seconds and then extended his hand.  
  
"A pleasure," he said.  
  
Other introductions followed, but as the gentle reader of this tale has already been introduced to both these families, I shall not repeat the introductions here, save that they were made in proper order: Franklin, Barry, Rebecca, Samantha, Ellen, and Virginia, and then Lucy, Simon, Ruthie and the twins, followed by Eric, who had been intercepted and briefly delayed by one of the finer citizens of Glenoak, a certain Mrs. Bink. What does bear repeating, though, is the invitation made by Annie that the Camden's new neighbors join them that very afternoon for a meal in the Camden backyard, an invitation that was accepted most gratefully. We move now, therefore, from the facade of the Glenoak Community Church to this more modest locale, where the two families could gather and talk. 


	4. Annie's Backyard Yummies

Chapter Four: Annie's Backyard Yummies  
* * *  
  
Our narrative must now depart from a single thread into the weavings of an intricate shroud, for our story is not, in truth, one story, but rather many, for there were many Camdens, and many Shaws. This departure begins in the large back yard of the Camden home, where in times past many a wedding rehearsal dinner had been held, save, of course, for the rehearsal dinner for their own eldest son, whose marriage had been so replete with fraud and chaos that only the intervention of the highest of patriarchs in all the land had made it possible at all, and then only grudgingly, since it was an interfaith marriage and the Camdens were decidedly not an interfaith family, all protestations to the contrary not withstanding.  
  
But this crisis had passed, and it was a new autumn, and the disobedient eldest son, as well as the supreme patriarch who solved all difficulties, were gone. And in this new autumn the Camdens and the Shaws gathered to get to know one another as Christians are wont to do.  
  
Annie stood now, with Eric and their children, at the gate of the white picket fence that surrounded their back yard. The Shaws had just pulled up into their own driveway in their sizable minivan and the seven of them had tumbled out and approached their new neighbors.  
  
"Welcome," Annie said, a wide, genuine smile gracing her face.  
  
Edward looked at her, then at Eric, who had not spoken, then back at her.  
  
"Thank you," he said.  
  
"Please," Eric said then, "come in. Simon, would you please show Franklin, Samantha and Ellen where the plates are?"  
  
Simon nodded. His eyes were on Samantha and Samantha alone. This had in fact been the case earlier, of course, in the church, when they had first been introduced. Samantha, lovely Samantha, dressed in a modest, feminine dress, her young face shining, her young figure perfect, her polite smile just right. And Simon, of course, was a teenage boy, and it is a nearly universal truth among teenage boys that girls like Samantha will take and completely occupy their thoughts and hopes and desires.  
  
He was smitten, as they say.  
  
And being smitten, he was finding it quite impossible to form complete sentences.  
  
"Sure," he blubbled.  
  
And so he and Samantha, his true love forever and ever with violins and soft moonlight and the passions of his youth, went off to the large table with the paper plates and plastic silverware. Franklin and Ellen trailed behind. We will return to them in a moment.  
  
For now, however, there were still the adults, and Rebecca, glancing up at her husband as she spoke, suggested that perhaps Ruthie and Virginia might like to play a bit before they ate, and get to know each other, a suggestion that Annie, glancing not at her husband but rather at Ruthie, agreed would be nice.  
  
"Be careful," Rebecca told her daughter, "not to get dirty."  
  
Virginia nodded. "Yes, Ma'am."  
  
And the two wandered away, Virginia following Ruthie like an unknowing lamb being led to the slaughter, for she did not know that Ruthie was, as was her habit, about to try to surgically extract from her every deep and dark secret the Shaws held.  
  
This left the adults and the Camden twins and Barry, and they all moved together to the large table, where Rebecca handed her husband a plate with silverware, then handed a second one to Eric. She then got her own, as did Annie. Lucy took a plate for herself and of course the twins and Barry looked up at the big people and perhaps wondered if they would be forgotten.  
  
They were not. Edward looked down at them, and then at Lucy.  
  
"Perhaps your daughter can tend to the boys while we chat," he said.  
  
Lucy looked back at him, her mouth open to speak, even as Eric answered.  
  
"Would you, Lucy? I'd appreciate it."  
  
She was a good girl, Lucy was. She had a lovely singing voice and the twins had always been most fond of her because she would sing gospel songs to them in the evenings before bed. She was also, of the Camden children, the one most devoted to her faith, and the one who was most like her father. She was as well a regular fixture at the church, where she worked on charity and outreach projects. In addition to these noble things, of course, Lucy Camden was a passionate and fairly indiscriminate kisser, a fact which no small number of boys in Glenoak and elsewhere had discovered over the past few years. Currently her use of her lips and tongue was more restricted to the phone and her latest boyfriend in Buffalo, who was a handsome young policeman known for paying flattering compliments to those he arrested.  
  
Lucy nodded now, and she took the twins in hand and began to make each of them a small plate of food. Barry followed without a word. Edward noted this with approval and returned his attention to Eric.  
  
"I hope you enjoyed the sermon," Eric said.  
  
Edward nodded. "It was ... good," he answered. "I was a bit surprised, though."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"Yes. There was, well, no mention of Satan. Surely we must consider the devil when we see how neighbors might turn against one another."  
  
Eric felt his brows go up. "I suppose so," he said after a moment. "I was hoping, though, that the sermon might be about good neighbors, and how to encourage people to be good neighbors."  
  
"Of course," Edward said. "And that was good, Reverend. I suppose the best way to keep good neighbors is to keep bad ones out, wouldn't you say?"  
  
This wasn't quite what Eric had been thinking, but he did have to admit that the man had a point. It just wasn't the way he usually thought; with rare exception, Eric Camden could usually see the good in people. Sadly, the fascinating theological discussion that might have followed was cut short by a voice from the other side of the white picket fence.  
  
"Having a barbecue, Reverend?"  
  
It was Larry from next door, who had come out to shut off the sprinkler that was running in his own back yard. Larry was a muscular fellow with short hair and a thick, dark mustache; he shared the house with his good friend Tom, splitting the cost of rent. Tom was a smaller man, and less gregarious. They had moved in a few years ago when the previous renters had suddenly and quickly packed up and left. That happened from time to time in this neighborhood, for reasons unclear to the Camdens, despite their careful scrutiny of each new resident.  
  
Eric smiled, nodded. "Sure are. Have you met the Shaws?"  
  
Larry came around the fence and extended his hand, which Edward took tentatively.  
  
"God to meet you, Mr. Shaw. I'm Larry Boone."  
  
"Mr. Boone."  
  
"Would you like to join us?" Annie asked.  
  
Larry smiled, shook his head. "I was just about to head out and meet a friend for lunch. Maybe next time?"  
  
"Sure."  
  
"Look forward to it," Larry said, and with a broad smile he stepped back to his house. Only as his car was pulling out of the driveway did Annie realize that they had forgotten to introduce him to Rebecca. Reminding herself to correct this little faux paus the next time she had the opportunity, Annie returned her attention to the conversation. 


	5. And The Children Shall Chat

Chapter Five: And The Children Shall Chat  
* * *  
  
Across the back yard, Simon had directed the lovely, radiant Samantha and her sister and brother to the smaller picnic table, where the four of them sat with their food. This was followed by a few long moments of awkward silence as the newly introduced teens all tried to think of something to say.  
  
"So," Simon finally managed, his gaze for Samantha alone, "when are you guys going to start school?" This was of course an important question, since he needed all the information he could get so he would have first shot at asking Samantha out. He figured he already had an in, since Annie had told him the Shaws were good Christians, and as neighbors he already knew she was here in Glenoak. Maybe this curse of being the goody-goody minister's son would actually pay off for once. He had already constructed in his mind a dozen possible fantasy dates with her, each of which ended with the kind of passionate kissing he had so often seen his older sisters giving to their dates, and, well, to lots of different boys in general.  
  
But Samantha didn't answer. Rather, it was Franklin.  
  
"We don't go to school. Our mother and father teach us at home."  
  
He was very matter-of-fact about this, Franklin was. Simon looked at him and noted that he was not looking back, but rather that his attention was on the parents, who were talking with Larry from next door. That was good; Larry and Tom were good guys. Simon then felt his gaze go back to Samantha.  
  
"So where are you guys from?" he asked.  
  
"Iowa," Franklin said.  
  
"Really, what part?"  
  
"Near Iowa City."  
  
"What do you like to do for fun?" Simon asked.  
  
Franklin again. "We do things at our church."  
  
Simon paused. Franklin still wasn't looking at him. Neither now was Samantha; the other sister was watching him, though; wasn't her name Alice or something?  
  
"Really?" Simon said. "We do stuff at our church too."  
  
"That's good," Franklin said.  
  
Didn't this guy ever shut up?  
  
The conversation, such as it was, was broken now by the arrival of Lucy, the twins and Barry. The twins were babbling amongst themselves, and Barry wasn't saying anything, so Lucy just set her plate down and sat down beside her brother. The twins plopped themselves on the grass behind them, and Barry just stood for a moment, looking superflous, until he sat down alone.  
  
Simon scarcely noticed. The sunlight was making Samantha's hair shine as she looked around her, and then her eyes met his, just for a second.  
  
"How long did you live in Iowa?" he blurted out. "Was it fun there? What did you do?"  
  
The words came out wrong, of course, and though Simon didn't see it, Lucy noted Ellen's eyebrow come up, just a bit, as she watched him. Samantha smiled softly and spoke for the first time.  
  
"We did some things," she said, and her voice was soft and it flowed like nectar on the petal of a flower.  
  
"That sounds so cool," Simon babbled now. "What kinds of things?"  
  
Samantha simply smiled again, and Simon let himself drown in the loveliness of her eyes.  
  
"Wow," he said. "That is really something."  
  
Had Samantha actually said anything, this last might have made sense. But Simon was in love, and love, as we all know, makes really no sense whatsoever.  
  
His reverie was broken by a sharp jab, delivered by Lucy, into his ribs. Then his sister had gripped his arm and was tugging him from his seat.  
  
"Excuse us," Lucy said to Samantha, Ellen and Franklin, making a face that told all even as she tried to hide it. Simon stumbled after her.  
  
#  
  
Lucy dragged her lovelorn, witless brother into the kitchen, where she looked him in the eye with her most threatening look, which in her case, lacking the face for threats, was not so threatening at all.  
  
"What are you doing?" she demanded.  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Could you be any ruder?"  
  
"What are you talking about?"  
  
Lucy rolled her eyes. "I'm talking about how you are ignoring our guests!"  
  
"I'm not ignoring anybody!"  
  
"What about Franklin and Ellen? You're staring at Samantha like she's the only one here!"  
  
"I am not!" Caught in the act, Simon quickly backpedaled into attempts at justification. "She just seems lonely, that's all. It's a new town for her."  
  
"Oh, please! It's a new town for all of them! You just want to kiss her!"  
  
"Like you want to kiss Franklin?"  
  
"What are you talking about? I have a boyfriend!"  
  
"In Buffalo. Come on, Luce. She's ...."  
  
Lucy, of course, knew that Samantha was beautiful. And she knew as well what a beautiful girl could do to a teenage boy, or for that matter, to any man. She had seen Matt fall in and out of love time and time again, each time becoming all the more irrational, all over beautiful girls, until at last, desperate and pitiful, he had set out to find a fiancée and had found one, within a few hours. It was still unpleasant to think about what he and Dad had put the family through after that.  
  
So she was happy, Lucy was, that she, as a girl, didn't let herself get overwhelmed like boys did. Never. Of course not. Girls, especially proper girls like her, were reasonable and rational when it came to love. Absolutely.  
  
#  
  
Back at the table, Samantha and Ellen and Franklin all sat quietly. In truth, there had been little reason for Lucy to drag Simon away to berate him; Samantha and Ellen knew exactly what was being said by the two Camdens, and why. This was not the first time by any means that boys had slavered over the one sister and ignored the other. What is most interesting about this is the fact that Samantha, despite or perhaps because of her great beauty, actually had very little interest in boys or in sex. She saw the whole thing, really, as a game that other people played, for reasons she simply didn't fully understand. She understood sex, of course, to the degree that it affected her; that is, that it made boys pander to her, look at her, sometimes even whistle at her. It made them willing to do things for her that they would not normally do, and that, at least, she didn't mind.  
  
Ellen, on the other hand, felt passion. It was in her and very much a part of her. She was, in fact, far more aware of her developing body than her sister was, far more familiar with how she felt and what she needed and wanted. She was interested in boys in a very different way than her sister. Perhaps this was because to attract male attention Ellen had to work at it, and was therefore capable of being grateful for it in a way her sister couldn't understand. But they were close, though different, Ellen and Samantha were. They shared secrets of adolescence and a deep, abiding loyalty despite their differences.  
  
And so Ellen took little offence at the way boys like Simon Camden oogled and pandered to her lovely sister. She had long ago learned that there was no point competing with Samantha for such attention, even though she craved it. And for her part, Samantha accepted her sister's fascination with boys, accepted her desire for them, even though she saw little point to it herself. Once, a year before, Ellen had secretly bought a teen magazine and had consumed the colorful pictures and rather forward articles about the latest teen hunks with a deep hunger, and Samantha had quietly and willingly sat with her as she did, as Ellen oogled celebrities and pondered makeup tips. In time, of course, their mother had found the magazine under Ellen's mattress, and this had been followed by the Shaw family ritual of several dozen hard smacks to the bare bottom and then a special burning of the offending magazine in the family fireplace.  
  
Good girls don't think those things, Ellen. Good girls don't look at this sort of filth. Why can't you be more like Samantha?  
  
Samantha. Samantha had sat with her and held her that night as she had cried herself to sleep.  
  
#  
  
Franklin, as the brother and therefore the leader of the Shaw children who still lived at home, was not privy to these sorts of secrets, and even if you told him about them he would have denied that they were true. This was because Franklin loved his sisters, and his brothers, and his family, very very much. They were, to him, the archetype of what good was, what it meant, and he honestly felt that his family more than any other properly fulfilled God's commandments about what a family should be. This perspective, with the advantages of devotion and loyalty, carried with it drawbacks as well, the most notable of which was the fact that to Franklin, all other families were to be regarded with suspicion, and he watched these others, each of them, for signs of evil, for signs that they might try and corrupt his own, perfect home, might decieve and destroy his perfect, beautiful sisters.  
  
And so as Lucy and Simon returned to the table, seating themselves again across the table from the lovely Samantha, the passionate Ellen, and the protective Franklin, they smiled and ate and each watched in their own way, each seeing what they alone sought to see.  
  
Beside the table, the twins had made messes of their nice church clothes. 


	6. It's Been Two Weeks Already?

Chapter Six: It's Been Two Weeks Already?  
* * *  
  
It is important in a tale such as this to acknowledge not only the events that occurred, and when they occurred, and why and how, but as well those periods where events did not occur. This is not to say, gentle reader, that these periods which we shall mercifully ignore did not contain events; indeed, they did so, and mightily, for both the Camdens and the Shaws. But it is not germane to this tale to discuss how Lucy, for example, somehow convinced her policeman boyfriend in Buffalo to give up his promising career in law enforcement and flattery and move to Glenoak, where police work generally consisted of checking up on the dating lives of other Camden children, plus an occasional complaint of excessive noise from fraternity row at Crawford College, where, for reasons unclear to your humble narrator, hazing was still practiced by foolish young men on foolish young men. This made flattery all the more difficult than in Buffalo, of course, which was known for its extraordinarily high number of attractive Caucasian women making terrorist threats at the airport. Once in a great while, the Glenoak PD did get to deal with an offensive racist of some sort, but this was fairly easy duty, since the racist population in Glenoak was, even by the very low standards of racists in general, an amazingly stupid group.  
  
Nor is it terribly germane to our story to describe how Edward and Rebecca added a message board to their evangelical website, inviting the world to profess its faith (by which they meant, of course, their faith) and discuss and learn how a carpenter nearly two millennia before had not only spread a message of peace and love to the region of Galilee, but had also managed to rise from the dead after being executed in a most painful and shameful way, and how he had gone off to heaven where he was just waiting for the chance to come back and smite the wicked in favor of people who agreed with the Shaws. The board was mostly frequented by these agreeable folks, of course, and who were a remarkably homogenous group and who were generally well mannered, and whose disputes were generally limited to such important and current topics such as the nature of original sin and whether or not God wanted women to vote.  
  
For our purposes, it is enough to simply say that life on the small street in Glenoak, California stumbled along, as life does everywhere, with the little crises that are the burden of all humankind. Barry skinned his knee one day, and Annie kindly ministered to it, for example, and of course Simon watched as much as possible out his bedroom window for even a glimpse of Samantha; considering that watching other people was a trademark of the Camdens, this meant he was at his window a lot. Ellen, having apparently not learned her lesson about the evils and dangers of thinking about boys in "that" way, had purchased another teen magazine, this one with a singer from the pop group "'N Synch" on the cover, which she wisely kept hidden under a rock in the Camden front yard, wrapped in a plastic bag, and which she would cleverly extract and secretly read under a tree in a nearby park when she was supposed to be out walking the Shaw's new family dog, which was a remarkably dense and hyperactive purebred of some sort whose name was Lazarus.  
  
And so it was for several weeks. Two Christian families, one headed by a Minister who spread the gospel from his pulpit every Sunday, and the other headed by a software engineer who spread the gospel over the World Wide Web, beaming his message out 24/7. One would think that they were very much the same in all important respects.  
  
But of course they were not. And this leads us to, as they say, the meat of the matter.  
  
It begins with friends. 


	7. Friends: Eisenhower

Chapter Seven: Friends: Eisenhower  
* * *  
  
"What do you think?"  
  
It was Ruthie, with Virginia, in the living room of their neighbor Curtis.  
  
Virginia hesitated. She watched the animal, and it watched her back.  
  
"Go ahead. He likes to shake hands."  
  
Eisenhower pursed his lips at the girl.  
  
"I think he likes you," Ruthie joked. "Go ahead."  
  
"You first."  
  
Ruthie rolled her eyes, extended her hand to the monkey. He reached out, shook it.  
  
"See? Isn't he neat?"  
  
Virginia wasn't so certain. This monkey was an animal, and she wasn't sure he mother would approve of her touching it. Animals were dirty. But her new friend was watching her, her look curious now, and Virginia didn't want to look bad in front of her. Virginia was a shy girl, and back in Iowa she had had few friends, none of them close. It was hard, for some reason, to make friends; once she had brought over a neighbor girl to play, but for some reason her mother had sent the girl home and had never told her why. Later, Franklin explained it to her.  
  
"Her family doesn't go to church."  
  
That made sense to Virginia; church was important. So now she was here in Glenoak, and right across the street there was the family of a Minister, so of course they went to church, and their daughter wanted to be her friend.  
  
But first she had to touch this dirty animal.  
  
She extended her hand.  
  
The monkey made a funny sound and took her hand in its. The skin was warm, smooth.  
  
Ruthie smiled.  
  
"He belongs to Curtis," Ruthie explained. "I get to chimp-sit him. He has a girfriend, but today Curtis took her to the vet for a checkup."  
  
Eisenhower released Virginia's hand and made a face at the two girls. Virginia wiped her hand on her skirt, trying to make the move look inconspicuous.  
  
"I didn't know you could keep monkeys at home," she said.  
  
"He's not a monkey," Ruthie corrected. "He's a chimp."  
  
Virginia shrugged. "Aren't they all supposed to be in zoos?"  
  
"Curtis does scientific research at Crawford College. He has special permission to keep Eisenhower and his girlfriend."  
  
Eisenhower walked toward Virginia, his arms moving. She gasped, stepped back, bumped into something.  
  
"Monkeys are dirty," she said. "My mom and dad said so."  
  
Ruthie intercepted Eisenhower, held his hands and did a mock dance.  
  
"He's not a monkey. Does he smell dirty?"  
  
Virginia shook her head. She didn't know what to think, just now. The monkey, or whatever it was, was, actually, kind of neat. But she remembered too her mother's words about monkeys.  
  
Dirty animals. People think they're like us, but they aren't.  
  
She took another step back. Ruthie looked at her.  
  
"I'm not sure my mom would like my being here," Virginia said.  
  
"Why not?"  
  
She tried to think of an answer, some way to get out of here but not alienate her new friend. Because she wanted a friend, Virginia did, and Ruthie was the daughter of a Minister and went to church. She could be Virginia's friend. But there was this animal, too, the kind of animal that might bite you and give you some horrible disease because it was from the jungle and was nothing like people, nothing at all.  
  
Never mind that she had been able to shake hands with it.  
  
Ruthie was watching her. Ruthie did that a lot, when they talked. Her expression now was more than simply curious; it was penetrating. Virginia remembered the barbecue in the Camdens' back yard, the way Ruthie had talked and the way she had listened as Virginia had told her all sorts of things about her family. Ruthie liked to listen, and Virginia needed a friend. And Ruthie was good at asking questions, too.  
  
She had asked one just now, and her face made it clear she expected an answer.  
  
Virginia felt compelled to give her one, even though she didn't have it.  
  
"Because monkeys have diseases."  
  
"I told you he wasn't a monkey. He's a chimp. And he doesn't have any diseases. All right?"  
  
Ruthie's tone had changed, had hardened, just a bit. Virginia nodded, and her gaze dropped. She knew that tone, had heard it before, though she was not clear, at this moment, just where. But it was there and she reacted as she always had, as she knew she was supposed to.  
  
"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I didn't mean to be wrong."  
  
Ruthie smiled. 


	8. Friends: Lazarus

Chapter Eight: Friends: Lazarus  
* * *  
  
He was mowing the lawn when she appeared. The mower was old, a bit loud, and had his gaze not been repeatedly straying toward the house across the street he might have missed her as she came out with the dog.  
  
But of course he didn't miss her. No chance of that.  
  
She was dressed, as she was usually dressed when he saw her, in a modest summer dress that the warm weather of early autumn in California permitted. It reached below her knees, revealing only a pair of perfectly formed calves, her small feet disappearing into a pretty pair of shoes. The dress sported sleeves that reached to just past her elbows, and the neck of the bodice ran high. The pattern was pink and pretty, roses against white.  
  
All this he saw.  
  
She was beautiful.  
  
And she was moving now, off down the street. Simon licked his lips, tasted just a bit of the salt of his sweat. She saw him now, and waved, and he waved back.  
  
Be cool. Just be cool.  
  
God, she's incredible.  
  
The mower hit a rock, rattled noisily.  
  
He cursed under the noise, pulled back. She was rounding the corner of the street as he looked up again.  
  
Dammit! Now she thinks you're an idiot.  
  
Then Simon saw the leash slip from her hand.  
  
Lazarus bolted away, into the street. Simon heard her call the dog's name, saw her just standing, unmoving, as a car came slowly around the corner. It braked and honked at the dog, who proceeded to wander into the yard of old Mrs. Leonards and raise its leg against the post of her mailbox.  
  
Simon reacted, shutting off the mower and running toward the dog. It saw him and bolted, rushing back into the street, which was, most fortunately, empty now. She watched as he caught up to it, grabbing for the leash.  
  
Lazarus growled at him, pulled against his hand.  
  
He pulled back as Samantha reached him.  
  
"Oh," she said, "thank you."  
  
Simon smiled.  
  
"My pleasure," he answered, extending the leash to her.  
  
As she took it her hand closed over his. It was soft, feminine, gentle, the nails well kept and polished. Exactly the hand he had expected her to have. And she looked into his eyes as she took the leash, and she smiled back at him.  
  
Words, clever words that were suave and cool, died in his throat.  
  
It took several seconds for her to take the leash from him.  
  
"He always tries to get away," she said finally. "It's so hard to keep up with him."  
  
Simon nodded. More clever words died.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
A slight breeze came up, rustled at her perfect hair. Her eyes had not left him.  
  
"Maybe you could walk with us, in case he gets away again?" she asked.  
  
Clever words? Surely, gentle reader, you know better than to ask.  
  
#  
  
They reached the nearby park, walking together. Lazarus struggled mightily against the leash, and after a moment Samantha asked Simon if he would take the dog, which of course he agreed to do.  
  
"So, how do you like Glenoak?" he managed.  
  
She shrugged. "It's all right."  
  
Lazarus saluted a tree.  
  
They walked around the park. Lazarus was a curious dog, sniffing at everything, but Simon hardly noticed. He was trying, rather, to think of something to say. This was, even apart from the difficulty of being with so lovely a girl, proving difficult. She didn't go to school, so they couldn't talk about school. He had never been to Iowa and in fact had only the faintest idea where it was (near New York, perhaps), so that wasn't much. The questions he wanted to ask, of course, seemed too forward.  
  
Do you have a boyfriend?  
  
Do you like to kiss?  
  
Do you want to go out for pizza?  
  
Too forward. He had to be cool, not as he was with the girls at school, who were all so turned on because he was a virgin. No, with them, it was easy, and the relationships were always short, and that was fine because one was always very much like the next.  
  
His only long term friend was Morris.  
  
Don't think about that, Camden.  
  
This was different. Samantha was beautiful. I know, gentle reader, you have heard this said before, but to Simon this made things different. She was beautiful and he wanted her more than anything in the world. And that meant it had to be perfect, that his lines had to be cool and smooth, that he couldn't afford to make any mistakes.  
  
This, of course, paralyzed him.  
  
They stopped again as Lazarus marked a hydrant.  
  
"I wish there was more to do," Samantha remarked.  
  
"Huh?" babbled Simon.  
  
"Here in Glenoak. I wish there was more to do."  
  
His tongue stumbled and he nearly fumbled his response.  
  
"There is," he said. "There's the Promenade, and Pete's Pizza, and the movies, and there's the pool hall, too."  
  
She regarded him. "That sounds fun," she said.  
  
His mouth was dry and he wondered if she could see how hot his brow suddenly felt.  
  
"Well, maybe," he stammered, "we could go out sometime. For pool, maybe. Or pizza."  
  
She smiled, sweet and innocent and lovely.  
  
"That would be nice, Simon. You'd have to ask my parents, of course."  
  
He barely heard her through the roar of his heart, his face going flush as the joy of her words hit him.  
  
"Sure .... Sure ...." he said.  
  
As he returned to his unmowed lawn and she stepped back to her front door with Lazarus in tow, Simon was unable to see the knowing, confident look on her face. 


	9. Friends: Open Road

Chapter Nine: Friends: Open Road  
* * *  
  
Eric Camden pulled his wife's electric car into the driveway of his home and shut down the quiet motor. It was a good little car, well tempered and suitable for a man of his station, a man who should set an example to his community.  
  
You are scrutinized, always and forever.  
  
Especially when you stand out in front of your house in your pajamas and fight with your oldest daughter.  
  
Lou.  
  
The parishioners see, Eric, and then they call me.  
  
Your daughter is dating an older man.  
  
Your other daughter has her boyfriend living in the garage apartment.  
  
But the twins are all right.  
  
For a few seconds, Eric didn't want to open the door of the car. He imagined instead that it was a Mustang, or a Trans-Am, and that it was just him and the car, on the open road, the roar of full throttle in his ears, somewhere far away. The kind of car he had imagined himself owning when he was a boy, the kind of car not owned by a Minister or a Minister's wife, the kind of car not owned by a man with seven children.  
  
Did Captain Smith own such a car?  
  
Oh, God.  
  
Eric's hands were white on the steering wheel.  
  
They see, and then they call me, Eric.  
  
They would be watching, he knew. His neighbors, watching him, watching his family, watching his children. Watching as he failed as a parent, as Mary went away with an older man, a man who clearly just wanted a pretty young thing to drape on his arm, and watching as he stood there, unable to stop her.  
  
Watching.  
  
He remembered a sermon he had once given.  
  
We have to watch each other. This is how you build a strong community. Do you ever really know your neighbors? Paul writes his letters to the community of Christians, writes of how that community must watch out for its own, must protect its own. It is his message to us.  
  
And each community must have its leaders.  
  
And each leader must set an example.  
  
How could you have betrayed me like this, Mary? How could you have betrayed your own family? Ben was perfect for you. We all approved of him.  
  
Eric Camden sighed. He opened the door and stood. The front door of his house beckoned.  
  
No. Not his house. The house belonged the church.  
  
The parishioners see, and they call me.  
  
Not your house. Not your life. Not Annie's life, not Matt's life, or Lucy's, or Simon's or Ruthie's or Sam or David's.  
  
No.  
  
Your lives are ours. We own you.  
  
Forever.  
  
Just a Mustang or a Trans-Am, on the open road. No God, no neighbors, no wife, no kids. Just him and the car, the roar of the engine, the white lines of the highway flashing by.  
  
He looked at the door again.  
  
I can't go in there.  
  
I can't.  
  
Eric Camden, Minister, man of God and slave of men, stood unmoving.  
  
And it was at this time that Edward Shaw appeared beside the small, inoffensive electric car.  
  
#  
  
"Reverend?"  
  
Eric turned. How long had he been standing there?  
  
What had he seen? Could he see the ache?  
  
Would this too be reported?  
  
Out of habit, Eric extended his hand. "Call me Eric," he said.  
  
Edward Shaw nodded, took the hand, smiled wryly. "Only if you call me Ed."  
  
For the first time today Eric grinned.  
  
"Ed."  
  
Edward glanced at the car. "Engine trouble?"  
  
Eric shook his head. "It's electric. I wouldn't know if there was. Seems all right, though."  
  
Edward nodded again. His gaze returned to Eric. The two men stood quietly for a moment. Then Edward spoke again.  
  
"I've had a long day. Looks to me like you have too. You want to grab a beer?" 


	10. Friends: Tea Time

Friends: Tea Time  
* * *  
  
It was clean.  
  
That was the first thing Annie noticed about the Shaw house.  
  
Clean.  
  
She tried, of course, with her own home, worked hard and insisted that the kids work too, that they each have chores and that they do them. But Sam and David were still young, and the young make messes, even if they are small ones, and Sam and David had taken so long to learn to eat and talk that Annie had finally broken down and simply picked up after them without protest. The result was that the Camden home was clean where people could see it, and not so clean elsewhere.  
  
Somehow she just knew that Rebecca's home would be clean throughout.  
  
And it was.  
  
She had come over because Simon had asked her to, Annie had. And it was midday and her own house seemed so empty, just her and Sam and David, so she had taken the twins by the hand and walked across the street with them and had rung the doorbell, and Rebecca had answered and had seen the boys and had admitted them with a smile. Barry was in the living room playing with the plastic sword and shield of his "Crusader of the Lord" play set, which Sam and David seemed more than content to watch, allowing Annie and Rebecca to renew the custom of tea among ladies that they had enjoyed at their first meeting, several weeks ago.  
  
They sat in the kitchen now and Rebecca smiled as she poured.  
  
"It's so nice to see you, Annie. How have you been?"  
  
Annie smiled, added a bit of sugar to the mug as Rebecca sat down.  
  
"It's been busy," she said. "A little crazy, but you know how that is."  
  
Rebecca nodded. "God makes life a challenge," she said. "But of course he also brings us joy."  
  
Somehow this wasn't what Annie had hoped to hear. Of course God made things challenging, and good, but what Annie had hoped to hear was something about how hard it was to run a big household, how hard it was to be a mother to seven or eight kids.  
  
Hard. No one had ever told her it would be this hard. It had to be hard for Rebecca too, didn't it? Couldn't they sit and trade stories, commiserate a bit, share the weight they both had to be feeling?  
  
"Of course," Annie said politely, hoping to spur further conversation. "It looks like you've all settled in all right."  
  
"Of course," answered Rebecca.  
  
"Did you get that bathroom problem settled? I'll be happy to take a look."  
  
Rebecca sipped her tea. "It's fine. We had a plumber out."  
  
They talked a bit more. There was no commiserating and Annie finally resigned herself to the fact that there would be none. Maybe that was fine, too. Maybe what she needed was to see that her new friend was a successful mother, that things in her own life weren't as bad as she thought.  
  
Rebecca had faith in God, after all, and Annie knew full well how powerful that could be.  
  
She turned at last to Simon.  
  
#  
  
He had come over here yesterday, dressed well and without his earrings, and had sat patiently with Edward and Rebecca, and had asked if he might take Samantha to the pool hall or a movie, or even just out for pizza. This had happened without Annie knowing, without Eric knowing. It had in fact been Ruthie who had told them why Simon was late for dinner.  
  
"He's asking her parents if he can take her out on a date?" Lucy had asked.  
  
Ruthie shrugged. "I guess they're picky," she said.  
  
Lucy didn't answer. Kevin had come in and sat down and her eyes were now for him alone. He acknowledged her with a smile and took a helping of potatoes.  
  
"I think it's nice," Annie said. "I wish more boys had done that with Mary and Lucy."  
  
Lucy, despite the fact she was still in the room, said nothing.  
  
Eric nodded. His attention seemed elsewhere.  
  
Simon returned an hour later and Annie had asked him how it went. He shrugged.  
  
"They said maybe."  
  
"Maybe?"  
  
"They want to talk to you and Dad. I guess they don't trust me."  
  
Annie smiled at her son. "I'm sure they do, Simon. The fact that you went over there must count for something. Not many boys do that anymore."  
  
He nodded. "Will you go?"  
  
#  
  
Of course. Now here she was.  
  
Only now did it occur to her that she had no real idea what she should say.  
  
Rebecca watched her now.  
  
"Your son was very nice," she said finally.  
  
Annie nodded.  
  
"Simon, yes?" Rebecca asked.  
  
Again a nod. "He's a good boy," Annie said.  
  
"Any trouble with drugs? Alcohol?"  
  
The question was very direct. So was Rebecca's gaze now.  
  
"No. Never with drugs. There was a misunderstanding with Matt once, and Simon went ballistic when he thought his brother might have used marijuana. Simon hates drugs."  
  
"Alcohol?" asked Rebecca.  
  
"Only once. He got so sick I think it was worse than anything Eric or I could have done for punishment. He won't go near it now."  
  
"Did you punish him for it?"  
  
Annie nodded. "Oh, yes."  
  
"He tells us his nickname at school is 'Virgin Camden'."  
  
"Oh, yes. He's very proud of that."  
  
Rebecca smiled. "That's good. I'm sure you know how boys are, Annie, especially when they come from permissive households. Edward and I are very careful about our children and who they see. There's a lot of evil in the world. A lot of unchristian people. You have to be careful."  
  
Annie said nothing now. It felt a bit strange, to be on this end of the questioning. But good, too. She had met too many parents who didn't care, who didn't worry about who their children saw, about what sorts of influences they might fall under. She knew from her own youth that there were real dangers in the world, dangers of temptation.  
  
She thought, without knowing why, of Mary.  
  
Rebecca asked for Annie's recipe for the potato salad from the barbecue. Annie complemented her on how clean her kitchen was. They had just gotten to the very exciting subject of the benefits of sewing knee patches on their boys' pants before the holes formed, rather than after, when Ellen appeared in the doorway.  
  
"Mom?"  
  
Annie looked over at the girl, smiled. Rebecca turned to her.  
  
"Yes, dear?"  
  
Ellen looked at Annie for a moment, then back at her mother.  
  
"Can Samantha and I go down to the store?"  
  
Rebecca watched her daughter. "Did you ask Franklin?"  
  
Ellen looked suddenly uncomfortable.  
  
"He said he doesn't want to."  
  
"Then you know you can't."  
  
Rebecca turned back to Annie. Annie watched Ellen for a few seconds. Disappointment played over the girl's face, but she didn't say anything more. Finally she turned and stepped out of the room.  
  
Rebecca was back on the subject of knee patches. When that topic played out Annie spoke, keeping her voice just a bit quiet.  
  
"I hope I didn't interrupt anything with Ellen. Is she grounded?"  
  
Rebecca's eyebrows went up.  
  
"Oh, goodness no. Has she done something?"  
  
Annie shook her head, and Rebecca looked satisfied.  
  
"She tests me, you know," she said then. "And her father and brother. I suppose they all do. Kids are like that. But you know that already, I'm sure."  
  
Annie chuckled. It felt a bit forced.  
  
"Kids need rules," Rebecca said. "Boundaries. Thank heavens for the Bible or I don't know how we would have managed. Thanks to the Lord Jesus Christ my children all know their place. They all know where they stand. That's what makes a home healthy for children, don't you think?"  
  
Annie nodded. The thought came again, intrusive, of Mary, of Captain Smith, and this thought was followed by the memory of Simon, sulking about the house, wearing the weight of hidden pain on his features. More and more and more; her kids, protesting, struggling against the rules, and she and Eric and Sergeant now Detective Michaels talking about this crisis or that crisis.  
  
But Simon had come over here and had asked Samantha's parents for permission to take her out. Maybe he really was learning responsibility. Maybe when Ruthie started to date Annie should be as careful as her new friend was.  
  
Boundaries, she thought. Kids need boundaries. That's how they know they're loved.  
  
She sipped again at her tea and looked around as she chatted with Rebecca.  
  
The Shaw house was clean. Spotless. It was not, Annie reflected, like her own, and as she sat with her new friend, Annie found that she couldn't quite suppress the kernel of growing envy she felt. 


	11. Friends: Christian Soldiers

Friends: Christian Soldiers  
* * *  
  
Sam and David watched Barry play. They were enjoying themselves, the Camden twins were, because Barry was a bundle of energy, slashing right and left, up and down with his plastic sword, parrying imaginary blows with his plastic shield. Nearby, the rest of his "Crusader of the Lord" play set, which consisted of a small Bible and a comic book depicting the events foretold in the book of Revelation, sat unattended.  
  
It would be a mistake to say that the Camden twins could not talk. They could, in fact, talk quite well, indeed far better than most children their age. But we must remember also that they had been born just as the Camden family entered a series of great crises, and they had spent their first few years of life being effectively ignored by their parents and most of their siblings, so their only firm early memories were of their sister Lucy singing gospel hymns to them. It was from these that they had first learned to speak; not of course to their busy parents or siblings, but to each other. Lacking adequate exposure to English, the Camden twins had developed their own language, which no one else understood or even suspected they had. This new language, as one might expect, was based on gospel for its lexicon, and because gospel has only a limited vocabulary, relied on tone as well as a complex morphology to deliver meaning. This former was an unusual feature that, had a professional linguist observed it, would have granted Sam and David much fame and several articles in scholarly linguistic journals, because tonal languages are both rare and do not seem to arise spontaneously in nature.  
  
"Onward Christian," David remarked to his brother as they watched Barry play.  
  
"Off to war," answered Sam.  
  
By this they meant that Barry was hyper. The rising tone of Sam's words indicated that he found this very amusing indeed.  
  
"Saved a wretch?" asked David. He was asking if there was any point to Barry's slashing.  
  
"Dust on the Bible," Sam said. This meant no.  
  
Barry noticed them now and he stopped his slashing long enough to approach them. Barry, unlike Sam and David, was fully fluent in English with the exception of swear words, which were not permitted in the Shaw household.  
  
"You wanna play?" he asked.  
  
Sam switched to his very limited English.  
  
"Whatcha plaaayin?"  
  
"It's called 'archangel'," Barry said. "I'm smiting Satan."  
  
David giggled. "Satan" meant: I've peed my diaper. Isn't anyone going to change me?  
  
"Haw com?" Sam asked.  
  
"So I'll be ready when the sinners come after me."  
  
"Sinner" meant whirled peas. As a verb it meant to fling them around randomly. David giggled again, and Barry turned his attention to him.  
  
"It won't be funny when the sinners come," Barry told them. "They're everywhere, you know. Here." He handed David his plastic sword.  
  
David looked at the thing, at the cross emblazoned on the pommel, at the way the guard was unnaturally wide so the sword itself could resemble a cross.  
  
"Go ahead. Smite a sinner."  
  
David bonked his brother gently on the head. Sam giggled now.  
  
"Awesome splendor," he said, and David laughed loudly at the joke.  
  
Barry looked at them both. He handed David the shield. It bore a prominent golden cross.  
  
"Here," he said. "You hold it up, and the demons and sinners have to back away. That's when you cut them up with the sword."  
  
David raised the shield over his head.  
  
"Thou art," he said.  
  
Sam erupted into laughter. Barry watched them both. He had never seen kids this young speak in tongues before. It must be because their father was a Minister. 


	12. Friends and Friends

Friends and Friends  
* * *  
  
You, gentle reader, seem surprised.  
  
The Camden children had friends? The Reverend and Annie had friends?  
  
Heaven forbid!  
  
But they did. The Camdens were friendly kids, friendly adults. Indeed, a survey of their lives would indicate that even before the arrival of the very Christian Shaw family, they had had many friends indeed. Matt, the eldest son, for example, had been quite close to the eldest son of another Minister, an agreeable and sensible young man named John, with whom Matt had shared an apartment as well as the pleasure and responsibility of regulating his younger siblings' lives. Mary, the eldest daughter, had once been a local high school basketball star and as a participant in a team sport she had had many friends, sharing with them the peculiar excitement of trashing their own gymnasium, rather than that of their rivals, as is more customary among young American sports vandals.  
  
Lucy, the sensitive middle child, had in her youth shown a remarkable predilection for finding best friends with trendy social problems, so many in fact that your humble narrator must confess he lacks the skill in mathematics to recount them all. As examples let us consider the very nice girl whose grandmother was a nasty and verbally abusive old woman and whose mother was likewise, but whose problems had all been quickly solved by her association with the Camdens and their advice of telling the offending and troubled women "I love you". Or perhaps the gentle reader is interested in the poor, troubled girl who dealt with her anxieties and unhappiness by cutting herself, an unpleasant problem that was solved, at least from the Camden perspective, by a speech to Lucy by Reverend Camden about the tragedy of such girls and then the permanent departure of the troubled friend to parts unknown for treatment.  
  
Simon, for his part, had trouble making friends in high school, largely because the public school system of Glenoak made it a practice to ignore the uniqueness of each child and to measure them instead by their families and older siblings, which meant that Simon was branded early and often as a do-gooder preacher-boy, a reputation he resented deeply but which made every good thing he tried to do become associated with religion. The sole exception to this was his friend Morris, a boy who may or may not have been Jewish but whom we will discuss in greater detail later. Ruthie had few friends of note, preferring to spend her free time at home collecting interesting and intimate facts about her family. She did have one friend, a Muslim girl named Yasmine, who, like most Muslims in Glenoak, rarely appeared in public.  
  
The twins, in terms of friendships as in most other things, were paid little attention, save by each other when they would discuss through the words of holy songs what they thought about their family.  
  
No, the rumors that the Camdens were friendless must be dismissed as inaccurate. Rather, it should be said that the Camden young were by and large simply not disposed to the kinds of friendships that most young people have, which is to say friends who were actually important to them. Morris was an exception, and for Lucy there had also once been a close and important friend, but this girl had been tragically killed in an automobile accident, which gave Lucy the unfortunate distinction of being the only Camden child who had ever suffered real emotional trauma.  
  
And as to the parents, it may simply be said that Eric and Annie generally failed to make their friendships public, because everything else about their lives was decidedly that. But Eric had some good friends who belonged to a totally drug free rock and roll band, as well as a number of friends in the clergy of Glenoak (who constituted quite a number, since Glenoak was a holy, holy place) and Annie had the wife of at least one Minister as well as Serena, a woman whose most notable achievement in life had been an unsuccessful attempt to seduce Eric a few years before.  
  
So there were friends before the Shaws, but the Shaws were special.  
  
God himself had seen to that.  
  
Let us return now to our two families. 


	13. Half and Half and Half a Beer

Half and Half and Half a Beer  
* * *  
  
He hadn't planned on saying yes. Normally he would have simply made an excuse to decline, would have told Edward Shaw that Annie needed his help in the house, would have brought up the fact that there was a bunch of church business he still had to do tonight.  
  
But yes came out. For some reason, even though he had never been very fond of beer, Eric Camden said yes to the invitation of Edward Shaw. And for some reason he found himself in Edward's Lexus as they made their way to a bar that was situated not far from Edward's office.  
  
"Found it right after we moved here," Edward said. "It's a nice place to unwind."  
  
Eric nodded as he opened the door and stepped out of the car. He knew of the bar, of course, just as he knew of every place in Glenoak where there might be trouble. One of his parishioners had used to come here, some years ago. The man was still on the wagon now, though, after Eric had managed to get him into AA.  
  
Just a coke, he told himself. And watch Edward; make sure he doesn't overdo it.  
  
They stepped inside.  
  
It was busy, a bit loud. They found a table, and Edward pulled a twenty from his wallet and laid it on the counter.  
  
"A pitcher," he told the waitress as she approached. "My usual."  
  
She smiled, took the twenty, stepped away. Her skirt was short and Eric made himself look away.  
  
Edward was watching him. Was anyone else here watching too? Would Lou hear about this now?  
  
The words came without him thinking.  
  
Screw you, Lou.  
  
The beer came then. Edward pocketed the change, poured two glasses. He raised his.  
  
"Cheers."  
  
The beer was a little bitter, but it had a good flavor. Eric took a swallow.  
  
"So," Edward said. "How are things?"  
  
Eric shrugged. "All right."  
  
Edward watched him for a moment. It was clear that he had seen through the lie. Finally he nodded. "It's a tough job," he said finally.  
  
Eric took another drink. It tasted better this time, and the words came more easily to his head now.  
  
Yeah, screw Lou. If Lou had any idea what I go through for him ....  
  
"Sorry?" he asked.  
  
"What you do. It's tough. I know."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"Everyone looks up to you. Everyone expects you to deal with things. That's tough."  
  
Eric nodded now. "How about you? Things all right?"  
  
"We're all right. I'll admit I was a little worried about moving out here. You know how California has a reputation for being liberal. But Glenoak is a good town, most of it."  
  
Eric chuckled. "Most of the liberals are in the bigger cities. You know, San Francisco, L.A."  
  
"Sodom and Gommorrah."  
  
Eric chuckled again. The beer was beginning to have an effect. He was beginning to feel a little better. "Yeah, they can get pretty wild. Fortunately my kids know better than to drive that far."  
  
Edward nodded. He was halfway through his glass.  
  
"That's good. You have to set rules with kids."  
  
"Amen to that."  
  
Edward paused. He was watching closely now. Eric finished his glass and poured himself another. Edward rolled his glass between his hands.  
  
"The girl this morning," he said. "Your oldest?"  
  
Eric froze. He had seen. Like everyone else in the neighborhood, Edward Shaw had seen him, standing there in his bathrobe, arguing with his daughter. Lou's voice came without warning.  
  
They see things, Eric, and they call me.  
  
There was nothing else he could do. He nodded.  
  
Edward finished his glass. Eric's gaze had dropped, when it came up again he saw that Edward's expression had changed, just a bit.  
  
"Yeah," Eric said softly. "Oldest daughter. She's a flight attendant. Jet Blue."  
  
"Flew them once. Pretzels were all right."  
  
Eric nodded, took several swallows.  
  
Edward reclined in his seat now, still rolling his glass between his hands. "Trouble with her, am I right?"  
  
Eric sighed. His head felt a little light from the beer; it had been a long time since he had had more than a glass of wine and he could feel the buzz setting in. He heard his own voice speaking.  
  
"Yeah. Wrong guy. Too old."  
  
"That's always tough," Edward said.  
  
"The worst part is, there's nothing I can do. Last time she got into trouble, we sent her to my dad's place in Buffalo. I really thought she was pulling her life together. She had a nice guy for a boyfriend; he'd do anything for her. But now ...."  
  
Edward nodded.  
  
"You know," he said. "They don't need boyfriends who will do anything for them. They need men who understand them."  
  
Eric looked over at Edward.  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"Women. They need us. They need fathers, they need brothers, they need husbands. Makes our lives all the harder, but we have to do it."  
  
Eric shrugged. "It's a good job, flight attendant. She could visit with us a lot, had her own place in Buffalo. She was really learning to get by on her own."  
  
"You know they never do, Eric. It's not the way they're put together. It's not the way they're intended to be."  
  
Edward had poured himself another glass. Eric watched him closely.  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"Women are whores. It's the way they're made. They can't help themselves."  
  
The word stopped Eric short. He was really feeling the beer now and he wondered if he'd heard the man right.  
  
"I don't think that's true," he said.  
  
Edward spread his palms and smiled. "Don't get me wrong, Eric," he said. "It doesn't mean they're all bad, or evil, or anything like that. It doesn't mean we don't love them, or that we shouldn't love them. I love Rebecca and the girls more than I can say. I'd do anything for them. But I also know what they are, what they can't help but be. I know what scripture says about women, and about men too."  
  
Eric sighed, rested his head against one hand.  
  
"I think scripture says we're supposed to love each other," he said.  
  
Edward smiled and nodded. "It does. But you know that every answer is in the Bible, Eric. Not just the comfortable, easy stuff, like those satanic New Agers believe, but the hard stuff, the hard message. That's why God gave it to us. Look at Eve. She was the one that Satan tempted, because he knew she was the one who could be more easily turned."  
  
"Adam was tempted too," Eric pointed out.  
  
"By Eve. Look, I'm not saying that Satan couldn't have corrupted Adam the way he did Eve, but I think it would have been harder. Satan knew that Adam was more vulnerable to Eve than he would have been to Satan himself. It's something about women, Eric, something they can't control. It makes them sin if they're not watched. That's why they need us."  
  
There was something in Edward's words that didn't quite ring true to Eric, but it was hard to place. And in spite of this he felt good; it had been a long time since he had enjoyed a theological debate, and Shaw knew his Bible.  
  
"How so?" he asked.  
  
Edward chuckled. "I don't have to tell you, Reverend. You know the story. After their disobedience, Adam and Eve were cursed by God before they were expelled from the garden."  
  
"Pain in childbirth, and working the land."  
  
"More than that. Genesis 3:16: the man shall have dominion over the woman, but she will be drawn to him. You know, Eric, they say that this is Eve's curse, but I think it's Adam's. Women have lust in them. They can't stop it and they can't control it. The curse clearly says that controlling it is up to us."  
  
Eric closed his eyes. The memory came to him, vivid. Maybe not just one memory but many. Annie, warm and close beside him, clutching him with her hands and crying out in her passion and need as they made love.  
  
He took another drink. When he opened his eyes Edward was looking at him closely.  
  
"We do our best, Eric. We try and be good fathers to our children. I taught my boys young to watch out for their sisters, make sure they don't stray, because that's what they'll have to do as men when they have wives and daughters themselves. It's our curse; we love them, as God commanded, and we have to take the responsibility of having dominion over them. God cursed us twice over; with Adam, and again with Eve. But he did it because he knew we could handle it, could handle the responsibility."  
  
Eric thought of Matt. I taught him to watch Mary, to watch Lucy and Ruthie. I taught Simon to watch Ruthie too. Maybe Ed's right.  
  
Maybe that's the way I need to be with Lou, with the church.  
  
A silence settled over the table and the time passed, the talk becoming less significant and easier to forget. Eric noted that the pitcher was nearly empty and that a big basket of french fries and another of chicken wings had somehow arrived and been consumed. He felt good; maybe it was the beer, the rich food, or maybe it was the fact that he was talking to another man, a man his age who had kids, who was responsible for them. A man who understood him, who understood that he was never thanked, never even acknowledged, for all he did for them. And he thought again about Mary, about how everything had gone wrong. He heard himself say something about her.  
  
Edward spoke again. His voice was suddenly heavy, suddenly pained.  
  
"It's tough, Eric. Believe me I know. Kids are hard. Sometimes you lose one." 


	14. Nightfall

Nightfall  
* * *  
  
Quiet now, in the house.  
  
This was unusual; normally there would have been some noise, some motion out in the hall, some reminder that the house was shared by eight people.  
  
There had been times there had been more.  
  
But it was quiet now.  
  
Beside him, Annie breathed, the sound of it familiar, almost unnoticed. He had come, over the years, to know the sound, to recognize it, at times to welcome it and at others to fear it. He supposed, indeed hoped, that his breathing meant the same thing to her.  
  
Perhaps he should ask her sometime.  
  
Sometime.  
  
But not tonight.  
  
Eric stretched a bit, trying to think. Robbie knows. He knows where she is, where she is living in Florida. I guess that's something.  
  
But is it enough?  
  
Is it so important that she get away from us?  
  
You sent her to Buffalo, remember? What must that have been like? You remember the Colonel, how he was when you were young, how he was with Julie. You know that deep down you've always felt that this was why Julie took up drinking.  
  
Mary drank too, didn't she?  
  
I had to do something. She was so out of control.  
  
Beer.  
  
The thought came to him, wouldn't go away. I drank beer, just a week ago. I sat in a bar with a friend and I drank beer. And we talked too, about Mary, about daughters and sons. When was the last time I did that?  
  
With Morgan? Maybe.  
  
Things were so much simpler then. Like they weren't real.  
  
With Edward Shaw they're real. Eight kids, that man has. And he holds that household together because he knows it is right that he do so, that he be the father, that he bring home the paycheck and feed and clothe them and keep them safe. And so he drinks a little beer once in a while to unwind, and he welcomes you into his world of unwinding and beer. He listens to you when you talk about things that Annie and the kids and Lou and everyone don't understand, that they can't understand, about how hard it is to be a father, to be a patriarch.  
  
It's up to you, Eric. No one else can be the father in this family.  
  
Mary?  
  
Your fault. I know you tried, I know you did everything you could to get her to stay with Ben, but it wasn't enough.  
  
It's never enough, unless you take complete control.  
  
Like your father did.  
  
Like Edward Shaw does.  
  
Eric Camden sighed, brought his hands up to his temples and rubbed at them, hoping the sensation would quell the migraine he knew was building there.  
  
#  
  
Annie felt the motion of her husband beside her, heard him sigh. She had not been sleeping, though it had been close.  
  
Almost sleep. That place where thoughts are sometimes more real than reality itself.  
  
Clean, always clean. Not just the place, but everything. They kept it all clean. No toys on the floor, no dust on the mantle, nothing out of place. A place you could show the world, a place that announced that this woman was a good woman, a good wife, a good mother.  
  
Clean.  
  
Clean.  
  
Even thoughts, even words. Your daughter comes in, asks for something she shouldn't, and when you rebuke her she does not complain, does not stalk away, does not say something hurtful. She does as she is told and the air is not filled with questions.  
  
Strict? Yes. But there were rules in that house over there. Parents were obeyed. Children knew they were loved because their parents took the time to make rules, consistent rules, and keep them.  
  
My parents never did.  
  
God, I love them, but they never did.  
  
That's how I got into trouble. That's how.  
  
But I'm a good mother, aren't I?  
  
Am I?  
  
Do I love my children enough to make sure they do what is right?  
  
Is my house clean like it should be?  
  
Annie sighed. She didn't know. There were no rulebooks for being a parent. You just did the best you could, tried to give your children values, tried to teach them right from wrong. But in the end, you had to let them go.  
  
Didn't you?  
  
Did Rebecca?  
  
A little gold cross, worn against the pretty ruffled blouse. A testament.  
  
Thanks to the Lord Jesus Christ, all my children know their place.  
  
My house is clean. 


	15. And Quiet Talk

And Quiet Talk  
* * *  
  
Annie moved. He felt it, felt her as she turned, as her hand went out and caressed at his chest. In the dim light he looked at her.  
  
The word came without being called.  
  
Whore.  
  
No, he thought. Not Annie. Not my daughters.  
  
Was Mary like this, right now, curled naked in the arms of that man?  
  
Eric shuddered.  
  
Annie looked at him.  
  
"Sorry," she said. "Are you awake?"  
  
He sighed, nodded.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
She would want him now. She would want to feel his touch, would want his hands on her, would clutch him close in her passion. She was like that, Annie was. No denying it.  
  
Maybe that's where Mary and Lucy get it.  
  
Maybe that's why we knew that Ben and Kevin were right for them, because Ben and Kevin are strong men, passionless men.  
  
Men who could contain that passion.  
  
Annie kissed him now, her lips warm, a bit moist. She felt good and he put his arm around her and drew her close.  
  
"Penny for your thoughts," he said softly.  
  
She smiled, but it was forced and he could see it.  
  
"I was thinking about the kids," she said.  
  
Eric nodded. He said nothing.  
  
"They keep getting bigger," Annie said now. "They keep getting older and I wonder ...."  
  
Her voice trailed off. It was silent for a moment.  
  
"Are we doing right by them, Eric?"  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"It's a dangerous world. They don't know what it's like. There are so many of them; are we watching them closely enough? Are we making sure they stay out of trouble?"  
  
"I think we're doing pretty well. They know right from wrong."  
  
Annie looked thoughtful for a moment. Eric wondered if she could see the self doubt he must be wearing.  
  
"I'm just worried, Eric. Matt's all right, but I'm worried about the others."  
  
He almost mentioned Mary, said nothing.  
  
"Lucy seems fine, and Simon is a good boy, just confused."  
  
"Is he? We still don't know where he went the other night, when he was so upset. We didn't follow him."  
  
"We can't always follow him, Annie. And he's still under restriction for that escort service thing. We kept him from getting into any real trouble. He won't be going anywhere for a while."  
  
"And Kevin and Lucy?"  
  
"They're in love, Annie. You know how that is."  
  
"But they fight all the time. If she loses him, the way Mary lost Ben ...."  
  
The memory intruded, the voice of his new friend.  
  
They need us, Eric. They don't need nice guys, they need men who understand them.  
  
"Kevin isn't Ben," he said.  
  
Annie went silent. Out in the hallway, they heard someone enter the bathroom, heard the door close and lock.  
  
"Do they know we love them, Eric?"  
  
He looked at her.  
  
"Of course they do."  
  
"You know that Simon asked me to let him go out with Samantha."  
  
Eric nodded.  
  
"But he's on restriction."  
  
Annie sighed. "Maybe we should let him go ... with her. Just with her. Maybe he'll see what a good girl she is. Maybe he'll see why he should be good. Maybe Ruthie and Sam and David will all see how important it is to be good."  
  
Eric nodded again. He thought of Edward Shaw, of his wife and large family. Just across the street now. A good, Christian family. Yes, he didn't agree with the remark about whores, but the word aside, the man had a point. Boys had to learn responsibility if they were going to become men. They had to learn respect for women and they had to learn that being a man meant saying no sometimes, even to a pretty girl. Samantha seemed like a good girl, and it was pretty obvious that the Shaw kids respected their parents and other adults. They had good morals over there.  
  
Kids need good morals. They need guidance and they need to associate with other good kids. Do you want Simon to be like Mary was?  
  
That, in the end, decided it. 


	16. Sin In A Plastic Bag

Sin In A Plastic Bag  
* * *  
  
He saw her come out, saw her cross the street. The view from his window in the garage apartment was good, and the spot she walked to now was one that could not be viewed from any point other than his window, other views being blocked by the large oak that grew in the Camdens' front yard.  
  
He watched. There was a barbell in his hand, and he raised and lowered it as she moved to the driveway and stopped. He knew she couldn't see him, and that made the watching all the more pleasant.  
  
She stood for a moment, the dog on the leash struggling against her, and then she reached over and turned over a rock.  
  
He watched as she pulled something out, as she replaced the rock and walked down the street with it, the dog following her.  
  
And he wondered how he could turn this to his favor.  
  
Perhaps the gentle reader is wondering if Kevin Kinkirk was like the Camdens in whose home he was now a boarder. Perhaps the reader wonders if some of their curiosity about people had rubbed off on him, particularly since he was by now considered a part of the family on account of his de facto engagement to daughter Lucy. And at the outset, such a supposition might seem warranted.  
  
But Kevin was not a Camden. He was Kevin, and he had long ago developed his own reasons for watching people closely, reasons that no one, particularly not the Camdens and certainly not the Shaws, understood.  
  
Kevin, you see, was, in his heart of hearts, a very happy man. To understand this we must take a short digression from the scene above, because what he felt and why is much more important than what he had just seen. To Kevin, there were two types of people in the world, and only two: those who gave and those who received. His father and his brother were decidedly of the former type; both firemen, and neither really very bright. But Kevin, though he too had chosen a life of public service, was not a giver. He knew this and now you, gentle reader, know it too. Kevin was a receiver. He took, quite gladly, whatever was offered to him, whether it was love or money or fame or opportunity. More than this, he had long ago developed strategies for encouraging people to give things to him, carefully formulated features of his personality that made people want to give to him, that made them feel good when they did. Among these features were his ability to flatter, but as well they influenced how he performed his job as a policeman. He loved the authority this gave him, and loved as well the respect.  
  
And he was not blind, either, to how his carrying a firearm in a very public way inspired just a bit of fear in people, and how in that bit of fear they were more likely to give to him as well. He had mastered ways of reminding people that he was armed while sounding like he was joking, and when he did this he was always rewarded.  
  
Flattery, a gun, and knowledge. Knowledge, yes. Because another advantage of being a policeman was the fact that you got to learn things about people, and when people knew you knew things about them, they would give even more willingly to you. These didn't have to be big things, and often you never had to put the knowledge to use, but Kevin had long ago gotten in the habit of acquiring it anyway and storing it away for the future, just in case he wanted something and someone could give it to him.  
  
This, then, is why, a few days later, when coming back from working the night shift, Kevin Kinkirk went to the rock where he had seen Ellen Shaw go and turned it over. He pulled out the plastic bag and opened it, and he scanned the cover of the teen magazine quickly with his flashlight and nodded.  
  
He knew instantly what it was, and why it was there, and he returned it quickly to the bag. The Shaws were a strict, conservative Christian family, and a magazine that talked about cute teen heartthrobs and the latest dating advice for adolescent girls would certainly not be allowed in their home.  
  
But it was the book underneath the magazine that really caught Kevin's attention.  
  
Thick. A blue cover dominated by a picture of an elaborate gate.  
  
A title.  
  
University of California at Berkeley General Catalog.  
  
Kevin smiled. Ellen Shaw, he knew, was now his. 


	17. Virginia's Chores

Virginia's Chores  
* * *  
  
Rebecca Shaw liked Ruthie Camden.  
  
This should not, I suppose, come as a great surprise. Ruthie was remarkably well behaved, remarkably mature, and she was the daughter of a Minister. She was a good Christian girl, too; normally girls at her age were all about boys and other sinful things, but Rebecca had never seen Ruthie with boys and when she asked Virginia about it her daughter looked relieved and told her that Ruthie had never talked about boys to her at all.  
  
That was good. Girls needed to stay away from boys until they were older, until they had grown into proper Christian young ladies.  
  
Like Samantha. Samantha was always so well behaved, so proper. Yes, she was a beauty; no one could deny that. But she was chaste, Samantha was. Demure and proper. She was a good role model for Virginia, and for Ellen too. Even for Franklin and Barry, showing them what a proper Christian girl was supposed to be.  
  
I'm so proud of you, Samantha. Of course you can go out with Simon Camden.  
  
Simon must be a good boy, to have a sister like Ruthie. And he's the son of a Minister, too.  
  
Yes, Mother.  
  
#  
  
Rebecca now met Ruthie at the door with a smile. Yes, she liked Ruthie, Rebecca did, despite the fact that the Camden girl often wore trousers instead of skirts, which was of course a direct violation of Deuteronomy. But Deuteronomy was long and rather a boring read, and it was from the Old Testament anyway, which meant obedience to it was optional, and in addition to being polite Ruthie seemed genuinely interested in Virginia, who was shy and who back in Iowa had often been lonely. So when after the lovely barbecue in the Camden back yard Ruthie had begun to come over and spend time with Virginia, Rebecca was pleased.  
  
It was late afternoon and school had ended for Ruthie about an hour before. For the Shaw children, of course, school went longer, because there were several of them and Rebecca was intent on giving them each a great deal of attention in their lessons. So as Ruthie entered she saw Franklin and Barry to one side of the living room, and Samantha, Ellen and Virginia on the other, each with a book before them.  
  
"Welcome, Ruthie," Rebecca said to her. "We were just finishing our math lesson. Please have a seat."  
  
Ruthie did. Rebecca turned her attention back to her children. She was drilling Ellen and Samantha on algebra, and the two were rattling the answers back at her like bullets.  
  
In time the lesson ended, and the children gathered their books and each went off to perform their chores. This was a normal ritual in the Shaw home, which Ruthie had noted early on was always spotlessly clean and well kept. Today Virginia was assigned to fold laundry, and as she did, she chatted with Ruthie.  
  
"So just the five of you now, plus your parents?" Ruthie asked.  
  
"Yes. My older two brothers are grown up."  
  
"What do they do again?"  
  
"Joshua is in the army. Peter got married."  
  
"I had a friend in the army. His name was Staff Sergeant Dwight J. Morgan."  
  
Virginia nodded. She was quite expert at folding clothes, at sorting them. She could sew, too, and knit, and cook, and run a vacuum cleaner. Ruthie had seen each of these skills demonstrated, and had been impressed by them, since she herself had not done chores in many years. She was supposed to do chores, of course, but her parents were poor enforcers of that sort of thing and it was easier to simply manipulate another family member into the work.  
  
Perhaps there was a way she could put Virginia's skills to work too.  
  
No. Later.  
  
There was still a lot she could learn from her new friend.  
  
By this, of course, I do not mean skills. Ruthie had no real interest in Virginia's skills, however impressed she might be by them. Rather, Ruthie was interested in the Shaws, in Virginia's siblings and parents, in all the details of their lives. This was not because the information had any real practical value but rather because Ruthie had extracted all the gossip she could from her own family and had found that she liked knowing what was going on in other people's lives, particularly if it was naughty.  
  
She saw the Shaws as being a potential gold mine.  
  
Virginia asked her about Staff Sergeant Dwight J. Morgan. Ruthie explained who he was, that he was a hero who had died in Afghanistan and that her father had held a special service for him.  
  
Virginia nodded as Ruthie explained.  
  
"I hope Joshua doesn't have to go to Afghanistan," she said.  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"My mom says they aren't Christian over there. Plus it's dangerous."  
  
Ruthie nodded, stored this away for future reference.  
  
"What does Joshua do in the army?" she asked.  
  
"He drives a tank."  
  
Ruthie watched Virginia carefully. Useful, maybe.  
  
"Does he know how to shoot?" she asked.  
  
Virginia nodded. "All my brothers do. My dad takes them hunting. All boys are supposed to know how to shoot."  
  
Ruthie noted this too. She had learned a great deal about her new neighbors from Virginia. She liked Virginia, too, because Virginia was the kind of girl that she liked to have as a friend. She was nice and it was easy to get her to do what you wanted, like Yasmine was. But Virginia was even better because she lived close by, and her family, unlike Yasmine's, had all sorts of interesting little secrets that were fun to pry out of them. Ruthie knew a lot already, but there were other secrets still, and she intended to get them all.  
  
Then there might be time for some real fun. 


	18. Warm Hands

Warm Hands  
* * *  
  
He came to her door dressed well. His earrings were at home, left at the last minute on his dresser. His hair was just cut and clean and well combed and he felt like a dork.  
  
But he was a dork with a date.  
  
Such as it was.  
  
He wished there was some way he could slow down the beating of his heart even as he pressed on the glowing button that rang the doorbell. The chime seemed loud for some reason, and he lowered his hand to his side and waited.  
  
A moment. Then the door opened. Edward Shaw stood there, wearing a casual shirt and trousers. He seemed bigger than Simon remembered him.  
  
"Good evening, Mr. Shaw," he offered.  
  
Shaw looked him over, up and down. Thank God Ruthie had reminded him about the earrings.  
  
"Good evening, Simon," the man answered.  
  
Don't look too eager. Just be cool.  
  
"Come in, son."  
  
"Yes, Sir."  
  
Simon stepped inside and Mr. Shaw led him to the living room, indicated that he should sit. Then he sat also, looked Simon in the eye. He had looked at him this way the last time, when he had grilled him. Questions and questions and questions.  
  
And questions for Mom, too, from Mrs. Shaw, and probably Dad, when he and Mr. Shaw would go out.  
  
What had they told him?  
  
About Claire?  
  
No. No one knew about that.  
  
Questions now, which Simon answered as best he could. You know her curfew? You have our phone number?  
  
Yes. Yes. Yes.  
  
Mr. Shaw nodded.  
  
"Good. You know we'll be waiting up for her?"  
  
"Yes, Sir."  
  
#  
  
She came down then, down the stairs. Her steps were delicate, her feet in a pretty pair of shoes with a tiny bow just behind the toes. She wore a modest dress, neither tight nor loose, hinting at her figure but not giving it away, the hem below the knees. Her mother was with her, and behind them, standing on the stairs, Simon saw the other sister, the twin, saw her watching.  
  
Watching him, watching her sister, her mother, her father. What was it he read suddenly in her eyes?  
  
Then Samantha smiled and the sister faded away.  
  
#  
  
In time they were finally in the car, finally driving away from the house and it was just him and her.  
  
Oh, God. Just be cool. She likes you or she wouldn't be here. Just be cool.  
  
He swallowed and wondered what to say.  
  
They went for pizza, as he had told her parents they would. He had first thought of a movie too, but that had been quickly vetoed. A dark theater? Hollywood? I think not, son.  
  
Pool?  
  
A pool hall is not the sort of place for our daughter.  
  
So it would be pizza, then a walk down the promenade. A public place, well patrolled by the police. Safe. Kevin was on duty tonight and that made them feel even better.  
  
"I'm really glad you asked me out," Samantha said, her voice soft in the silence.  
  
Simon's first attempt at an answer failed. Then he managed, "I'm glad you could come."  
  
"Sorry about my parents. They're a little intense."  
  
Simon relaxed a bit. A part of him had been afraid that she would turn out to be like them, all rigid. But she didn't sound like that, not at all.  
  
"That's okay," he said. They pulled into the parking lot of Pete's Pizza.  
  
#  
  
He got the door for her, and she rewarded him by letting him take her hand as she rose from the car. Her skin was soft, her fingers delicate. Her hand was warm against his, and she did not release it as they stepped into the restaurant.  
  
Pizza then. Pepperoni with mushrooms. She ate with her hands, her bites small. He had intended to use his fork, decided against it.  
  
You want her to think you're cool, right?  
  
They talked, too. Small talk. Iowa was a nice place. Lots of farms. California was warm a lot of the year. Lots of sun.  
  
Daniel came in then, and Bob and Chuck, the door swinging shut behind them as they moved to the counter.  
  
Daniel and Bob and Chuck from school. Chuck saw him, saw Samantha, poked Daniel, who turned.  
  
Simon smiled, gave them a nod. This would be all over the halls on Monday. And they didn't even know who she was. This was going to be great.  
  
"Friends of yours?" Samantha asked.  
  
"I know them," Simon answered, returning his gaze to her.  
  
She smiled back at him.  
  
#  
  
It was busy on the Promenade; Friday night. They saw Kevin once, Roxanne beside him. Kevin was on the pay phone talking to someone.  
  
Simon led Samantha the other way.  
  
His watch said he still had more than an hour.  
  
"This is nice," Samantha told him.  
  
He smiled at her.  
  
She took his hand.  
  
And it was not so long after this that they were back at the car.  
  
As he opened the door for her Simon suddenly tensed. There was still an hour before her curfew; had he done something wrong?  
  
Graceful and beautiful, she slid into the seat, coquettishly pulled the hem of her dress out of the way of the closing door.  
  
His hands trembled as he went around the car, got in, and took the wheel.  
  
"Is everything all right?" he asked her.  
  
She was looking at him and she was smiling.  
  
"Is there someplace quiet we can park?" she asked him.  
  
#  
  
He knew a place, not far. It would be quiet there, private. Somewhere in his mind he was telling himself this was wrong, this was not what he had told her parents he would be doing with her tonight. But she was beautiful, Samantha was, and the way she looked at him, the way her hand felt on his as they drove, wore him down, wore down all thought of anything but her. And maybe there was something more, something important she needed to tell him, something she was afraid of saying in public.  
  
He thought of Claire, of his promise to her.  
  
I can keep a secret.  
  
Whatever it is, I can handle it. If there's something wrong, I will help.  
  
He engaged the brake, looked over at her.  
  
Her hand went back around his.  
  
"Is everything all right?" he asked softly.  
  
She nodded. And then she was leaning forward, her lips to his. Simon moaned as her tongue touched his, and again as she brought his hand up to the bodice of her dress. He felt as his fingers, guided by hers, parted the buttons there, felt her soft, warm, supple flesh beneath.  
  
Soon he felt many other things as well. 


	19. And Cold Feet

And Cold Feet  
* * *  
  
He got her home on time. Somehow, he got her home before her curfew, walked with her up to the door of her house. Somehow he was able to accept Mr. Shaw's handshake and goodnight without his knees collapsing in terror. And somehow Simon Camden was able to drive the car back across the street to his own home, turn off the lights, park it and lock it, and somehow he was able to get up to the bathroom and do what he had to do.  
  
It was there that he nearly fell.  
  
Oh God, what happened? What just happened?  
  
There were words for it, for what she had done, words most often bandied about in school among boys who pretended to know what they really meant. There were words for her, too, unkind, improper words that polite people weren't supposed to use but that they used anyway. And there were words for him, for boys like him, words used by fathers and adults, by men like Mr. Shaw when they found out what had happened with their daughters.  
  
Oh, Jesus Christ God Almighty ....  
  
Men like Dad, too.  
  
The terror grew in Simon now, grew large with impending panic. Because he remembered what Ruthie had told him once, just a week ago or so. They have guns over there. Mr. Shaw and his boys all know how to shoot.  
  
Just pizza and a walk on the Promenade, son. No dark theaters, no movies. Not for our daughter.  
  
Because she is pure and good.  
  
We can trust you with her.  
  
Can't we?  
  
We can trust you, Simon. That's why we're letting you off restriction for this one date. Because we trust you.  
  
He clenched his hands into fists to stop the trembling.  
  
Somewhere, back in the back of his mind, a part of Simon rose to his own defense. He had been good. He hadn't planned to do anything improper. It was her. She had talked him into parking. It was she who had put his hand ... there. It was she who had kissed him.  
  
You kissed her back. You knew better but you still did it. And then you let her ....  
  
That's what Mom will say, what Dad will say.  
  
What will Mr. Shaw say?  
  
What will he do?  
  
#  
  
Later, much later, Simon had showered and had vacated the bathroom for Robbie and had gone to his room. The initial panic had passed now, replaced by self recrimination and dread.  
  
It was quieter in the house now. Just then there was a soft knock on the doorjamb.  
  
Simon looked up.  
  
Mom.  
  
"Hello sweetie. How was your date?"  
  
He swallowed, put on his best smile.  
  
"Fine."  
  
Mom smiled back. "That's good. She seems like a sweet girl. Aren't they nice folks?"  
  
He nodded.  
  
"Your father went out for ice cream earlier. There's still some in the freezer. Would you like some?"  
  
The words "ice cream" sent a spasm of terror down Simon's spine. Had they followed him?  
  
He shook his head.  
  
"I'm all right. I think I'll go to bed."  
  
Mom came in and kissed him on the forehead. He didn't resist.  
  
"All right, honey. You sleep well."  
  
He nodded and she left.  
  
#  
  
Later than this, when the house was dead silent, Simon lay awake. At last he rose, padded quietly downstairs found the phone, dialed from memory.  
  
It rang four times and then picked up.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Morris?"  
  
A pause.  
  
"God, Camden, what time is it?"  
  
"Early. Late. I don't know. Please, Morris, I need your help ...." 


	20. Truths In Flannel

Truths In Flannel  
* * *  
  
You judge Samantha Shaw, I think. You look at her and even wondering why she did what she did you pass judgment on her.  
  
You are not alone.  
  
You, like Simon Camden and Edward Shaw, have words for girls like Samantha. You may not believe it but you do.  
  
But Samantha Shaw, like all of us, is more than simply words.  
  
Samantha knew the score. She was not a stupid girl, or a foolish girl, or a girl blinded by passion or lust brought about by a handsome boy. She knew the score, knew the way her world was. She knew more than you do and more than I do and she knew the words that you or I might use to describe her. And too, she knew, with absolute certainty, what the life she and her sisters had been born into meant for her.  
  
Yes.  
  
She had seen much in her young life, Samantha had. She had seen the way her mother deferred to her father, had seen the way her two older brothers were permitted to browse college catalogs and take the SAT and talk about careers and plans for themselves. And she had seen the way her older sister, the eldest of the Shaw children, had been taught to cook and clean and knit, and how her older sister had been placed under the authority of her brothers, how she had been told again and again that it was her place to defer, to lower her eyes, to be a good, obedient girl, because that was what girls were supposed to be and God himself would punish those who were not.  
  
She had seen this, all this, Samantha had. And then in time she had known it too. In time it had been made clear to her and to her twin sister that Franklin was just like Joshua and Peter had been, that because he was a boy he was stronger, wiser, more important. She knew what it was to have to obey her younger brother just as her older sister had been made to obey the two boys who had come after her.  
  
But Samantha knew other things too. She knew them well. She knew that the words about boys and men being stronger, wiser, more fit to lead, that these were just words spoken by people blinded to the world around them. She knew in fact that boys and men are weak, that they are, no less than girls and women, racked with fear and insecurity and foolishness and self doubt. And she knew that she was not her older sister Andrea, that she was not her twin sister Ellen. She knew that what worked for them would not work for her. She knew where her only hope of salvation lay.  
  
She knew the score.  
  
Yes, in fact, there was only one way allowed to her to be more than simply a daughter, a future wife, a future mother, a future servant. She had only one card to play, and she had learned to play it well, and there was a purpose to her playing it. You, gentle reader, must not be surprised to learn that Simon Camden was not the first boy she had touched, was not the first to feel the results of Samantha Shaw's quiet desperation.  
  
#  
  
She was wearing the smile that Ellen knew all too well when she stepped into the bedroom they shared. When she had closed the door Ellen spoke softly.  
  
"You didn't."  
  
Samantha nodded. "I did."  
  
Ellen's gaze dropped and she picked a bit at the hem of her nightgown. It amazed her, always amazed her, that no one else in the family could see that Samantha was not what they thought she was.  
  
"Why?" she asked softly.  
  
"You know why," Samantha told her.  
  
"He's a Minister's son, Sam."  
  
"I know."  
  
"What if he tells?"  
  
Samantha chuckled, drew off her dress and prepared to change for bed. "He won't."  
  
"How do you know?"  
  
A thick nightgown, flannel despite the warmth of California. A proper thing for a proper girl to wear to bed. Samantha slipped off her bra, pulled the heavy gown over her head and fed her arms into the sleeves. With a smile she looked at her sister and stepped to her bed, leaning over to kiss her on the forehead.  
  
"Because he's a Minister's son, El." 


	21. Godcom

God.com  
* * *  
  
We have all met Edward Shaw, but we do not at present know him. He liked to think of himself as a simple man, Edward did, as a man who asked little of the world and who gave of himself without complaint. These were simple values, befitting his background of a large, deeply religious family. This contrasted, of course, with his understanding of the complexities of computers, with the familiarity with the world of the internet. But even these things were simple things, really. Computers were digital; they worked or they didn't, and figuring out why was a joy to Edward, a pleasure.  
  
People were that way too. In college he had been quite active in the campus crusade, had preached to gospel to the sinners who filled the campus of the large Midwestern land-grant university he attended. There were the saved, the Christians, and then there were the drunken, promiscuous kids who had rejected God's word and God's loving plan. He saw as some of these were eventually saved, as Jesus led them to recovery from their addictions to alcohol, to drugs, to immorality. And from these new, saved friends Edward had learned two very important things: first, that anyone could be saved by the love of Jesus, and second, that there was no limit to the depths that those who did not believe could fall.  
  
It was easy, in this simple world, to keep his faith. You preached morality and you behaved morally. You shunned those who might corrupt you and you prepared for the inevitable rapture and tribulation that would precede Christ's return. And as a reward for this, God had sent him Rebecca, who was as fine a Christian wife as could be imagined, who cooked and cleaned and bore him fine children, who raised and taught them the fine family values that were so rare in the wickedness of secular America.  
  
They, his children, were the hope of the future. It would be they, through their acceptance and preaching of the Ministry of Christ, who brought the multitudes from sin.  
  
Most of them, anyway. This was important.  
  
They, his children, were why today, Edward Shaw came to Eric Camden. For Eric was a man of God, a believer, a Minister. Eric was his ally in the struggle with evil. Eric could help him.  
  
#  
  
"Look. Read it."  
  
Eric let his gaze move to the screen of Edward's computer. They were on the Shaw website, on the message board.  
  
The entry was long; Eric moved into the comfortable chair in front of the screen. He didn't know much about the internet; after a bad experience a few years ago they had pulled the plug on it in the house, and he rarely used the connection at the church. But he had heard from Edward about his website, designed to reach out to the world with the loving message of Christ, and he had been meaning to get the address from his friend so he could take a look.  
  
Now he was.  
  
It was a well designed site, a testament to just how good Edward was at his job. And as a part of the outreach Edward had added a message board, had invited the comments of the world he hoped to save.  
  
And now he had asked Eric to come and take a look.  
  
I need a Minister, Eric. I need an authority.  
  
Why?  
  
I've got a poster who's giving me trouble.  
  
Can't you ban him?  
  
I could, but that's not the function of the site. I need an authority who can take him down a few pegs.  
  
And so Eric had come, and so now Eric read.  
  
#  
  
"Ah, the Bible. Quite a bunch of books by any standard, in my opinion. I've stated in the other thread that I feel the Bible is riddled with inconsistencies and contradictions, which I believe is to be expected because it is not a single work but a collection of works. Unlike my atheist friends, who love to point at the inconsistencies and contradictions and claim that these invalidate it, as I've grown older I've grown to appreciate them as the best part of the Bible. This is because they make the Bible challenging; it's one of those marvelous works that you cannot read easily and that you cannot read without thinking. I've never quite understood why people feel it needs to be infallible. If there's any one thing I can recommend to people who look at the Bible, it's to read and use not only those sections that say things you agree with, but to seek out and read and wrestle with those that might offend you (Abraham's sacrifice of Isaac, God's behavior in Exodus, etc.), or which seem quite incomprehensible (God's behavior in Jonah, some of Jesus' parables and statements). You might, as I have, find yourself at odds with God or Jesus or a Patriarch or two, and that's all right. Because I think you will also find that the Bible made you struggle with questions you might have otherwise never considered, and you'll be the better for it. If I may lapse into theology for a moment, I have this hunch that this was the way God and Jesus and those Prophets intended it to be, but of course I haven't found any way to prove this."  
  
#  
  
Eric raised a hand, rested his chin in his hand. Edward noted this.  
  
"What do you think?"  
  
"Interesting view."  
  
"And heresy. But I've had heretics before; they're just loud atheists and we run them off pretty quickly. This one's trouble. He claims to love the Bible, but he doesn't believe in it. There's a ton of other posts, too. In one he called God a murderer."  
  
Eric turned and looked up at Edward.  
  
"A murderer?"  
  
"Says he murdered the first-born of Egypt. Then he says he can still love God anyway, because he thinks the Exodus is just fiction, meant to tell us that not even God is above being corrupted by power. He thinks God presents himself as flawed so people will learn to think for themselves."  
  
"Hm. Interesting."  
  
Edward's hand was opening and closing now into a fist. "I've tired everything, Eric; this guy doesn't care that he's going straight to hell when the tribulation comes, and he's going to drag down who knows how many other people with this. I need to stop him, Eric. You know the Bible better than I do. I need you to shoot down his arguments."  
  
Eric looked back at the screen, scrolled down to the poster's next contribution, read it.  
  
#  
  
"There is ample evidence in the biblical text that rather than follow God's edicts blindly, we are in fact expected to question and evaluate them. I am certain you are aware of the passage in Genesis 18:22-33, in which Abraham correctly questions God's decision to destroy Sodom: "Shall not the Judge of all the Earth do right?" (Genesis 18:25) We may and I feel should ask the same question of God if we have moral qualms about his commands; and I consider it a moral wrong to condemn men and women to rigid roles which prevent them from reaching their full potential as human beings, created in God's image."  
  
#  
  
Edward snorted as he read the passage. "Insane. What kind of a person questions God like this?"  
  
A clever one, Eric thought. Cagey. He sighed and spoke.  
  
"Maybe you're responding the wrong way," he said.  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"You've challenged him with the Bible. But he knows the Bible, Ed. Look at this post here; he even knows Hebrew. He'll match every argument you can come up with, and until he gets some faith, you'll never win the argument."  
  
Edward sighed. "So what do I do? If I ban him it'll look like I'm taking the easy way out, and I would be."  
  
Eric chuckled. "Simple. You challenge his faith, not his Bible. He's a human being, Ed. Every human being has something they're afraid of, something they're ashamed of. Find out what that is; start asking personal questions. Get in deep. Find out his insecurities, his pain, and never let them go. Once you know what hurts him, you can make him realize that he has sinned, just like we all have. Then you can minister to him. And once you bring him around to Christ, all that knowledge he has about the Bible will be a weapon for God, instead of being used against him."  
  
For the first time Edward smiled.  
  
"I like that, Eric. That's good. That's really good."  
  
Eric smiled back.  
  
"Glad to help." 


	22. Paper Route

Paper Route  
* * *  
  
You watched, always.  
  
Every moment, every day, you had to be on your guard.  
  
Because the world was wicked. It didn't take a genius to see it, to see how the Jews and Moslems were killing each other in the holy land, to see how the Moslems and the Hindus now had the bomb, to see how the atheists and the Darwinists and the fags were turning America, even God's own country America, into Sodom and Gomorrah. No, it was pretty clear if you looked at things right that the End Times were coming fast.  
  
Maybe they were already here.  
  
You had to protect the ones you cared about.  
  
You had to protect your family.  
  
This was the first principle. It was your job, like it had been your brothers' job, to keep an eye on them and keep them safe. It was how you were judged as a man.  
  
Franklin Shaw very much wanted to be a man.  
  
He tried, of course, tried very hard. He knew his father and mother expected him to manage his three sisters, and he did the best he could with this, though it wasn't easy. Ellen had given in to temptation once, so he made a point of watching her more closely, of periodically denying her requests for no reason, just to remind her that he would brook no sin from her. Samantha was good, but Samantha also drew boys. Like flies to honey she drew them, and Franklin knew that his father and mother were counting on him to evaluate the boys, to keep away the ones who wanted to use her because she was pretty. So he had to watch closely the way they looked at her, had to be ready to stop them if they tried anything wrong. Virginia was easiest, because she was younger and was shy, and she obeyed anyone. Virginia was a good girl, the way all girls were supposed to be.  
  
And Franklin wanted very much to be what a man was supposed to be.  
  
If he had a regret, it was that his father had never really shown him this.  
  
It was, Franklin knew, a fact of life in a large family. There were too many others who needed attention, and his father had to work too hard to bring in enough money to keep them comfortable. He was tired, Franklin's mother told him, because he worked so hard for all of them. So be a good boy, and a good man, and let him rest.  
  
As a boy, Franklin had had a paper route. This was important, because it was important that boys learn early that it was their place to work, and to work hard. So he had risen before dawn every morning and had picked up the bundle of papers and had diligently delivered them through several nearby neighborhoods. And it was through this paper route that Franklin had met Max.  
  
Max was a policeman. There weren't many policemen in the small Iowa town where the Shaws lived, because there wasn't much crime. Max had a place he would park his car in the morning and where he would enjoy a cup of coffee for his break, and one day Max bought a paper from Franklin, and on that day he gave him an extra quarter as a tip.  
  
"I like a new paper, fresh. No creases or tears. Can you bring me one in the morning, son?"  
  
Franklin had nodded and said "Yes, Sir," just like he did at home, and every day he made sure there was a clean, fresh, perfect paper for Max, and every day Max gave him an extra quarter, except on his birthday and Christmas, when he would give him a crisp new five dollar bill.  
  
In time, Franklin perfected his route, and he had time to park his bike beside Max's police cruiser and Max would joke and talk with him. And in time, Franklin found himself talking to Max about all sorts of things, about how he felt and what he was doing, and Max told Franklin stories about when he was in the army at a base in Texas, and he would put on an exaggerated Texan accent and they would laugh together. Sometimes, too, Franklin would ask Max for advice and Max would give it to him, and the advice was always good.  
  
I want to be a man like Max, Franklin thought to himself one day. Maybe a cop. Cops are good people.  
  
He had a paper route now, here in Glenoak, Franklin did. As before he was up early, dutifully delivering the news to home after home. Most of the neighbors were happy with his service, since there had not been such service for many years, since a short lived attempt by Simon and Ruthie Camden had fizzled out, as so many such things with the Camden children seemed to do.  
  
And it wasn't long before Franklin approached Kevin, the policeman who lived across the street, with a fresh, new, untorn paper, which Kevin accepted with a smile and a thank you, tucking it under his arm as he got into his car and drove off to work.  
  
#  
  
Now, Kevin Kinkirk was a patient man. This was an advantage in his job; he could man a stakeout with cold hamburgers and cold coffee and just sit there for hours, watching the building where the perps were, waiting for them to make their mistake, to try their drug deal or whatever, and when they did he would spring instantly into action.  
  
Everything was thought through beforehand, and the perps seldom got away. The lucky ones were only bruised.  
  
Because he was patient. And because before he acted, Kevin Kinkirk always had a plan, a goal.  
  
So it was now. He knew he had Ellen Shaw, though she as yet did not know it. He had her and he could do whatever he wanted with her. This alone made him feel good and for a week after his discovery of her cache of the Berkeley catalog and the teen magazine he simply reveled in this knowledge.  
  
And he watched. There were other things about the Shaws that he could work to his advantage.  
  
The boy, Franklin, had the cop thing. It was a thing with boys, especially boys who came from strict families. It was cool to be a cop, and these boys worshipped him, and Kevin gave them what they wanted as they did, with his little swagger and distant smile, and often these boys would wind up doing things for him, which as we have seen, was the primary motivation for Kevin anyway.  
  
And Franklin was Ellen's sister. That could prove helpful as well.  
  
But what could Ellen give him?  
  
Sex crossed Kevin's mind, but not for long. Ellen was a pretty girl, but not really beautiful, and sex would probably be going to far, as she might go to her father despite the punishment if he tried anything like that. Maybe if it had been the other sister, the beautiful one, Kevin might have considered it, but that one was like ice to him, rarely speaking when he passed her from time to time when she was out walking the dog. And whatever else he might have been, Kevin was no pedophile; he liked older women, probably because in the end they had more they could give him. He was halfway through his plans to get Lucy Camden, who, when he was through, would give him everything, and would do it with her parents' blessing. Lucy was no Samantha, but when you had the girl where you wanted her, in the dark, looks were less important than her giving you things.  
  
There had to be something else Ellen Shaw could give him.  
  
Perhaps the father was the key. It was said he was a gun owner, a collector. That might be interesting.  
  
So one day, when Franklin came to him with a new newspaper as he did every morning, Kevin accepted it and smiled at the boy, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his service automatic.  
  
"Thanks, son," he said.  
  
"You're welcome, Sir," Franklin answered.  
  
Kevin pretended to scan the headlines, then looked back at him.  
  
"I've heard your dad collects guns," he said.  
  
"Oh, yes, Sir."  
  
Kevin looked down at the boy now, putting on his best cop smile.  
  
"You know, there's a shooting range outside of Glenoak. Maybe you and I and he could go out there sometime, shoot some targets."  
  
Franklin nodded eagerly, his eyes bright.  
  
"That would be neat, Sir."  
  
Kevin nodded. "Good. Why don't you ask him? You can tell me what he says tomorrow."  
  
"Yes, Sir!"  
  
As Franklin hurried off on his bicycle, Kevin retained his smile, only now it was not the cop smile but rather his own, which was decidedly less friendly.  
  
It was a good first step. Kevin had always wanted to own a valuable gun, and maybe Ellen Shaw could get him one. And even if it didn't work out the way he had planned, he would at least have the satisfaction of turning her in. 


	23. Her You Avoid

Her You Avoid  
* * *  
  
It is a myth, encouraged by television, that events, even connected ones, happen quickly and immediately. In life this is usually not so; what occurs typically has a long history, each moment of it the result of one thing and another, building to the point that is today. Events and actions can take a long time.  
  
So we must not be surprised that for a few weeks nothing was said about Simon's date, or about Ed's troublesome internet poster, or Kevin's polite introduction into the Shaw home. They all occurred, of course, polite exchanges and subtle digs at the poster, trying to draw out his pain so he could be saved from his sin and turned to the forces of righteousness, polite introductions between the policeman and the software engineer, the policeman pretending not to notice the pretty but not beautiful sister who dutifully did her chores in the background. And for Simon, there was the daily drudgery of life, his eyes looking for Samantha now not to appreciate her beauty but rather to wonder what she had said and to whom. Samantha was there, of course, across the street, sometimes out walking Lazarus, and she smiled and waved at Simon when she saw him, but made no effort to approach him.  
  
This, of course, was fine with him, though it was torture as well.  
  
Maybe I wasn't any good. Maybe she doesn't want to do it again.  
  
Because I can't do it again. Her dad has guns. My dad, my mom, what would they do?  
  
They sent Mary to the Colonel's. She was even 18 and they still could make her go. Now she's even worse, sleeping with that pilot, and we never hear from her anymore.  
  
Simon wondered if people had started to notice that he was acting differently. They would, he knew, in time. It would start with Ruthie, because she was always into everything and had to know the most personal things about everyone. He remembered the time he had caught her in his room, feeling under his mattress, her hands coming dangerously close to the Victoria's Secret catalog he had stashed under there before he had shooed her away.  
  
He had had to throw the catalog away after that, because he knew she would just go back and check again, and if Mom and Dad found out he was, well, looking at it, there would be hell to pay. He still remembered the time they had gone through his wallet and found that stupid condom. Hadn't it occurred to them that if he was going to use the condom, he would have taken it with him on his date? And besides, everyone knew that you didn't carry condoms in your wallet, because that would ruin them.  
  
Everyone but his family, anyway. He only knew this because Morris had told him.  
  
Morris.  
  
His best and actually his only friend.  
  
#  
  
We must understand this before this story can proceed. There was a bond between Simon and Morris that is difficult to put into words, but that forms between boys sometimes and that once formed, cannot be broken. It's a connection that they create, sharing without words the unique experience of boyhood, of what it means to be a boy, what it means to want to be a man.  
  
And so when Simon had realized what he had done, what Samantha had done, he had gone to Morris, his friend, and had told him everything.  
  
He had graduated last year, Morris had. This was only because of Simon and they both knew it, because Simon had been there when Morris needed him. Morris was working now, taking a few classes at Crawford, still living at home with the parents who didn't know him. And that was all right, at least for now, because there wasn't much point in trying to get to know your folks if you were Morris, and with Simon's help this too had become clear.  
  
Morris had a way of laughing at serious things that let them stay serious and yet helped drain the tension away. Now, as he sat with Simon, he laughed this way.  
  
"Has she talked to you?" Morris asked then.  
  
Simon shook his head. "She said hello to me the next day, said she had had a wonderful time. Her mom was with her. God, Morris, why did she do it? Her folks would kill her if they found out."  
  
"You think so?"  
  
"They're more religious than my family."  
  
Morris chuckled. "Camden, God himself isn't more religious than your family. No offense."  
  
Simon wasn't amused.  
  
"I'm not kidding,' Simon told him. "They pray all the time; every other word is 'Jesus' or 'hallelujah'. And they love to talk about hell. Why did she do it, man? Her dad's got guns in the house. If doesn't kill her, he'll definitely kill me."  
  
Morris shrugged. "She's a woman, Simon. No one understands women."  
  
Simon nodded, said nothing. Morris leaned in close.  
  
"Look, Camden. It's a done deal. She either tells or she doesn't. If she does, your parents will give you hell for it, but you've got a cop living at your house. Her dad can't be stupid enough to come over shooting if Kevin's going to shoot back."  
  
"I don't know, Morris. What if he does?"  
  
Morris chuckled. "Then you run like hell. I'll hide you, if it comes to that."  
  
"What about her?"  
  
"Camden, her you avoid." 


	24. Quite Contrary

Quite Contrary  
* * *  
  
Now, gentle reader, you have heard time and again of the Camdens' trouble with Mary. As a girl, Mary had been a good girl, and in the early years of adolescence had seemed like such a fine young woman, diligent with her basketball, loving of her siblings, strong enough to stuff a boy's head into a toilet when he snapped her bra. A good daughter that you could be proud of.  
  
But something had gone wrong. Somewhere, somehow, Mary's life had spun out of control. There seemed no real reason for this, no discernible cause. It was almost as though some higher power, some worker of fates who wrote the scripts of the lives of the Camdens, had taken a dislike to Mary and had forced her into a mold of foolish decisions, immaturity, and repeated and entirely improbable strings of bad luck. As well, as we have seen, this higher power had forced upon the Camdens the unfortunate and not very affectionate habit of calling Mary stupid, of making her out to be the family moron, of laughing at her little misfortunes. If we must take a lesson from this, it is to never anger those who write the scripts of our lives.  
  
But despite this deep and official dehumanizing of Mary, it was not in the power of the fates to tell Annie Camden to stop loving her daughter. They might try with the silly escapades, with the backsided snickering that all the Camdens did these days, but the weight of a child inside you, the pain of pushing it out into the world, the sensation of holding it at your breast, the joy of watching it grow into a person, these are not things that fate or even God himself can control or about which he can tell you how you must feel.  
  
These things are greater than God, and God knows it.  
  
And so Annie Camden would sit sometimes, staring out at nothing when no one was around, and think about her daughter Mary. So tall and lovely, Mary was. A flight attendant now, out of Florida. Mary never called, never wrote. She was the daughter who was not, the daughter who had moved out, who had said she wanted a life away from her family.  
  
Away from the love that wasn't there anymore anyway.  
  
This was what Annie was thinking when Rebecca Shaw made one of her periodic visits to the Camden kitchen.  
  
#  
  
Now, she wasn't there to borrow anything, you understand. Rebecca was a good, fine, Christian woman, and as a good, fine, Christian woman her pantry was always well stocked. Rather, Rebecca had come over, and was knocking lightly at the back door that led into the Camden kitchen, because she had found a new type of tea at the supermarket and wanted to share it with her friend.  
  
Annie answered the door, met Rebecca with a smile, put on a kettle of water.  
  
Rebecca sat, the little box of teabags in front of her.  
  
"How are you?" she asked.  
  
Annie lied.  
  
"I'm fine."  
  
Rebecca smiled, seeing through the lie right away. "Of course you are. How is your husband, your children?"  
  
"Fine."  
  
A good, Christian lie. Everything of course was fine.  
  
"Your daughter's fiancé was at the house yesterday," Rebecca said. "He and Ed are going to do some shooting. He looks like a fine young man."  
  
Annie smiled. "He is. Lucy's very lucky."  
  
Rebecca nodded. "It's important for girls to find the right men. So many men are dirty, vulgar creatures. If they don't have the Lord Jesus Christ in their lives, there's no telling what kinds of perversions they might inflict on our daughters ...."  
  
She let her words trail off for effect. Then she saw Annie's face.  
  
The kettle began to wail.  
  
#  
  
Mary. Rebecca's face as Annie talked, as she told her about Mary, about how things had gone wrong, one after the other.  
  
Understanding. Rebecca was a mother, you see. Rebecca too had held that life within her, had held it to her breast. Rebecca too had watched the mewing little things become little people.  
  
"I keep thinking, wondering, what we could have done differently," Annie said. "Is there any other way we could have stopped her, could have helped her?"  
  
Rebecca shook her head. "You did your best," she said. "You tried. You sent her to Buffalo, to Eric's father. You never abandoned her."  
  
"Didn't we?" Annie asked. "She's gone now. She never calls, never writes."  
  
"It's not your fault," Rebecca said.  
  
"I'm her mother. I'm supposed to protect her."  
  
Rebecca reached over now, took Annie's hand in hers. The touch was warm, strong, reassuring.  
  
"Annie, listen to me. I know what you're thinking. When Andrea left I felt the same way. It was hard, but prayer got me through. And Ed. They helped me see what had happened, helped me see why. It saved my other children."  
  
"What do you mean?" Annie asked.  
  
Rebecca sighed deeply, her face serious. "Annie, there is a war going on in this country. It isn't pretty but it is there. There are the righteous, those who have accepted the Lord Jesus Christ and who live by His commandments, and then there are the rest of them, the liberals and the feminists and the homosexuals and the heathens and the atheists. And those are the ones who took Mary away from you. You couldn't help it, couldn't stop it, because they have made America into a place where girls think they have to have careers, where they think they have to do things that men are supposed to do. It's taken away our husbands' manhood, it's taken away our right to be women as God intended, and it's taken away our daughters. They say that feminism is a liberation of women, Annie, but you and I know that's a lie. It's Satan at work, undermining the family."  
  
Annie looked at Rebecca. There was a time, perhaps, long ago, when such words would have shocked her. But she had been a Minister's wife for many years now, had seen how young people cut themselves, how they got into gangs, how they did drugs. She had seen the way some women tired to have families and careers, had seen the way that unmarried women had such an unhealthy interest in sex. She remembered Serena, how she had tried to seduce Eric.  
  
"But women and men are equal," she protested softly.  
  
"Of course they are," Rebecca said, patting her hand. "But we are different from men, Annie. We're not supposed to be like them, we're supposed to compliment them. That's how God wants it to be. We're supposed to support our men, in their difficult lives. A man without a good woman is lost. But the enemies of God want men and women to be the same thing. They're the ones who told your Mary she was supposed to do the things she did. They're the ones who tempted her and who passed those laws that gave her the freedom to destroy herself. The only way to save your daughters is to keep them under tight control, keep them away from the bad influences, and to teach them to obey. Then when you find them a good husband they will obey him, and they will be good, Christian wives and mothers, the way God wants them to be."  
  
Annie nodded slowly. It made sense, in a strange sort of way. How would her own life have unraveled, with the drugs and the trouble, if she hadn't met Eric, if she hadn't agreed to remain at home as his wife?  
  
But it was hard, too. Because she still loved Mary. She would always love her.  
  
"What do I do, then, about Mary?" she asked.  
  
Rebecca's face grew cold. "You do what you have to, Annie. You keep her away from Lucy, from Ruthie. At least until they're married to good men. And you keep her away from your boys, too, because when they see her sinning they'll think it's all right to want sinful women, and that will destroy them as men. Someday, maybe, you will be able to welcome her back into your family, but not while you have children, not while there are children anywhere near, and not until she accepts the Lord Jesus Christ into her heart and lets him guide her to the proper way of being a woman. She's not the daughter you tried to raise, Annie, not anymore." 


	25. Holidays in Glenoak

Holidays in Glenoak  
* * *  
  
Thanksgiving came, Christmas following soon afterward. The Camdens celebrated both with the vigor typical for American families, Thanksgiving with a lavish meal and speeches around the table before it was eaten and an invitation to Eric's sister, her husband Hank and their baby to join them, which they did. This meant that no alcohol was served at Thanksgiving, because Eric's sister was a recovering alcoholic and her husband was Jewish, and since Annie had no idea if alcohol was kosher or not, she decided against serving it. This proved to be a good idea when more guests appeared in the form of Rabbi and Mrs. Glass, who took the opportunity to sit and talk about Judaica with Hank, who just sat and stared blankly at the both of them as they did.  
  
For Simon, this in turn brought back memories of Morris, who wasn't there but who might have himself been Jewish, and who no doubt would have benefited greatly from Rabbi Glass' explanation of how, particularly during the pressure of weddings, he sometimes forgot the distinction between the Hebrew 2nd person masculine and feminine pronouns. Unfortunately for the Rabbi, his careful rereading of "The Complete Idiot's Guide to Being a Rabbi" always failed to produce an answer to this problem, and he was afraid to look in a regular Hebrew grammar for help, since those involved the use of English words with which he was unfamiliar, like "adjective" and "preposition".  
  
Across the street, the Shaws too gathered in celebration. They respected the Puritans, the Shaws did, for both sticking to their rigid religious beliefs and for the way they had brought the message of Christ to the heathen of the New World, sweeping away unsavory pagan practices like respect for nature. As was traditional, they ate a turkey that Edward or one of the boys had killed, prepared to perfection with all the trimmings by Rebecca and the girls. It was a good holiday, enjoyed by all of them, the prayers at the table being led in long and great detail by Edward himself.  
  
"We thank thee, Lord, for this blessing and this bounty, and for the sacrifice of your only begotten son, who died that we might be forgiven of our sins and enjoy the gift of eternal life at your side in the kingdom of heaven ...."  
  
#  
  
Christmas too was celebrated. The birthday of Christ, of course, was not a thing to be forgotten, and not a thing that could be forgotten as stores and television began their annual assault on the public with the eternal message of have, have, have, and buy, buy, buy. The Jews and Muslims of Glenoak faded into the background as this occurred, wondering as they did how their Christian friends could possibly have allowed one of their two most sacred holidays to be so co-opted, even as many Christians and their secular neighbors bemoaned this as well and settled for time with their loved ones instead.  
  
At the Glenoak Community Church there was the annual celebration, and on Christmas Eve Eric gave a service which as always was well attended. Even the Shaws appeared, sitting quietly and in a group in one of the pews near the back, dressed in their finest, mixing with the congregation and looking disapprovingly at the Christmas tree in the lobby of the church.  
  
"You know what the origin of that is, don't you?" Edward asked Eric later as they mingled, cups of egg-nogg in their hands.  
  
Eric shrugged. "I think the tree was originally pagan," he answered.  
  
Edward nodded. "That's right. So why do you have it here?"  
  
Eric looked at his friend. Edward's face was serious, and there was something about his tone that just didn't feel right to Eric. He felt his chest grow tense; it seemed to do that a lot lately.  
  
"It's Christian now," he said. "It represents peace and love and brotherhood. Who cares where it came from?"  
  
Edward returned his gaze.  
  
"I'd say God does," he said.  
  
Nearby, Simon was edging his way through the crowd as he tried to avoid Samantha, who was, of course, radiant tonight, inspiring many carnal thoughts among the adult male parishioners, as well as a few female ones who would never, ever admit it. He got relief when Lucy dragged him into the basement of the church to dress up for his place in the nativity scene, which as in years past was staffed by Camden children and anyone else they could corral into doing it, which may be one reason that Robbie seemed to have left abruptly and without warning to be with his mother in Florida.  
  
It is interesting how neither your humble narrator nor anyone in the Camden household even seemed to notice that he was gone, but he was. In their defense we may say of the Camdens that Robbie was not unusual in this, that the Camdens only really noticed people for short periods of time even in the best of circumstances, and then only when they had some dramatic or interesting plot going.  
  
This is why the Camdens would soon take very great note of the Shaws. 


	26. Pants

Pants  
* * *  
  
It was winter in Glenoak, but winter in Glenoak was always mild.  
  
Simon was out in front of Larry and Tom's house, mowing the lawn before he set up the sprinkler and watered it. Larry and Tom were good guys; when they had moved in Larry had come over and offered him a job on the weekends taking care of little things like the lawn and the watering, which Simon had jumped at because Simon liked money. Over time this had gone from being less a thing he did for the money than a thing he did because he liked Larry and Tom. They had a better lawn mower than his own family, and Larry had given him a key to the back door of the garage and told him he could use it for his own chores, which Simon appreciated because it saved time.  
  
Good guys. It was better still because they didn't go to his church, and that meant they didn't know any of the gossip about his family, which was usually all over town.  
  
Oh, that Camden boy, into trouble again. Let's tell his parents.  
  
Simon was just finishing up with the mowing when the front door of the Shaw house opened and Ellen stepped out, Lazarus in tow. Simon tensed, seeing them, then relaxed.  
  
Not Samantha.  
  
A few months ago you would have been disappointed because it wasn't her, he thought to himself.  
  
A few months ago I wasn't worried that her father was going to kill me.  
  
This wasn't her, though. This was the other one, the one whose name he couldn't really remember.  
  
She was dressed as her sister did, in a modest, floral dress, sleeves just past her elbows, the hem of the skirt below her knees. It might well have been the same one. Over it she wore a sweater.  
  
What else did twin sisters share? Simon wondered.  
  
Ellen crossed the street, stopped in front of his house. Simon watched her, and she saw him, stopped short. Without thinking he gave her a wave.  
  
His mouth went dry as she led Lazarus over in his direction.  
  
Oh, dammit!  
  
He shut off the lawn mower as she approached him.  
  
"Hi," she said.  
  
"Hi," he answered. He gripped the handle of the mower tightly and tried to remember her name. Samantha's sister. Twin sister. She had been introduced to him at church, then at the barbecue, then at the church again at Christmas.  
  
Finally he just raised a hand, wiped the sweat from his forehead.  
  
"Sorry," he said. "I forgot your name."  
  
She didn't flinch.  
  
"Samantha's plain sister," she said.  
  
Simon opened his mouth to repeat it, stopped short. She was watching him closely, a sly grin forming on her face.  
  
"I'm sorry," he said again, really meaning it now. "I shouldn't have forgotten."  
  
She shrugged. "Everyone else does. It's all right. I'm used to it."  
  
"You shouldn't have to be. People should remember. I should remember."  
  
She watched him, the smile still there. Lazarus tugged at his leash.  
  
"Thanks."  
  
Simon nodded.  
  
"I'm Ellen. You want to take a walk with me and Lazarus?"  
  
A part of him, remembering Morris' words, screamed no, no, no. The Shaw girls were poison. Samantha had seemed sweet at first, all delicate and feminine, and then her hands had been on him, on parts of him that she wasn't supposed to touch, doing things expertly with them, with him. Things that had felt so good that they were all he could think about anymore, but that were so wrong. And then he had taken her home and her parents had thanked him for taking good care of her, and he had gone home wondering what was going to happen now. No! No! No! Just say no!  
  
But he had screwed up Ellen's name. He should feel guilty about that, and he did.  
  
She had him. He nodded.  
  
"Sure. Let me put away the mower and get the sprinkler started."  
  
Ellen nodded and waited as he did this.  
  
#  
  
The park. Sunny, as it usually was in Glenoak, a breeze blowing through it. Ellen was not like Samantha when it came to Lazarus; he heeded her, heeled when she told him to, stayed close when she let him off his leash.  
  
"I'm pretty sure you're supposed to keep him leashed," Simon told her. "My dad helped push through a city ordinance about that a few years ago."  
  
She regarded him. "Really? How interesting."  
  
Lazarus saluted a nearby tree.  
  
Simon shrugged, let it go. They walked a bit. Then Ellen found another tree, sat down. She let her head go back against the bark, closed her eyes, sighed. Simon watched her, his hands in his pockets. Her knees were up, the hem of her skirt just below them. If the wind blew just right ....  
  
Jesus! You want to get shot?  
  
She's a girl. Girls know how to keep that sort of thing from happening. Stop worrying.  
  
She was looking up at him again.  
  
"Have a seat, Simon. I don't bite."  
  
He nodded, sat down beside her where he wouldn't see anything even if the wind did blow just right.  
  
Lazarus wandered nearby, sniffed at something. Ellen called to him, and he came.  
  
"Good boy." She scratched him behind the ears and looked over at Simon.  
  
He watched her back. Lazarus went and sat down in the grass nearby.  
  
"So," she said finally, "What's your story, Simon Camden?"  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
Ellen shrugged. "What do you want out of life? What are you going to do when you grow up? What do you think about?"  
  
I think about getting the hell out of this damn town, Simon thought. I think about not being the Minister's boy. I think about not being compared to my brother and sisters all the time. I think about having some privacy, and maybe a girlfriend.  
  
He said nothing.  
  
"You're shy, eh?" Ellen chided.  
  
Simon nodded. It was all he could think to do.  
  
She smiled. "You know what I think about, Simon Camden?" she asked then.  
  
He shook his head.  
  
Ellen watched him for a moment, reading him. Then she spoke softly.  
  
"Pants."  
  
Simon raised his head just a bit. Ellen was still looking out, straight ahead. The wind blew then, just right, and she absent-mindedly reached down and kept her skirt modest. Lazarus looked up from where he sat, yawned, and lowered his snout between his paws again.  
  
"Pants?" Simon asked.  
  
Ellen nodded. "Yeah. Wearing pants. What's it like, Simon? I've never worn pants. I'm not allowed. I'm a girl. Once, when I was younger, I was going to try on a pair of Franklin's, just to see, but then my mom ...."  
  
Her voice trailed off. Simon said nothing. When Ellen spoke again her voice was softer still.  
  
"I guess you think I'm weird, don't you?"  
  
Simon shook his head.  
  
"It's in the Bible, you know," she went on. "I'm a girl and I'm supposed to do what I'm told. I'm not supposed to wear pants. I'm not supposed to go to college. I'm supposed to marry a good Christian boy and be a mom, like my mom. Are you a good Christian boy, Simon Camden?"  
  
He coughed. Matt was a good Christian, or maybe a Jew by now, and Lucy was a good Christian, and Mom and Dad were. But was he? Or was he more like Mary? Mary had drunk half a beer; he had gotten totally wasted. Mary had been punished; it seemed like he was constantly on suspension. Mary was dating and doing God knows what with a man who was not her husband, a man whose father clearly a psycho.  
  
And I let Samantha Shaw ....  
  
Simon lowered his head into his hands, closed his eyes.  
  
And Mary had bailed. She had gotten out. She was doing things her own way now.  
  
Would he get out, if he could?  
  
Simon raised his head and looked back over at Ellen.  
  
"No," he said. "I'm not a good Christian. I'm not."  
  
She nodded. "Neither am I," she whispered. "I try and I try, but I can't. It's killing me, you know? Do you ever think about death, Simon?" 


	27. Shooting Range

Shooting Range  
* * *  
  
Cold metal, heavy. Long, pointed, dangerous. You hold it in your hand and you can feel its power, your power. You have become more than a man, holding such a thing. You have, potentially, become a killer.  
  
Guns can do that.  
  
Can you?  
  
This is the first question you should ask in the presence of a gun. If you cannot answer it, if you do not consider it, you are a menace. Guns are danger, guns are death. They are tools, too, sometimes necessary, sometimes the only thing between you and your own demise. But this fact does not mitigate the other.  
  
We may think, looking at Edward Shaw's religious views, his political beliefs, his opinions about men and women, that he was a menace with his guns, but we would be mistaken. Edward Shaw had grown up around guns, had hunted since he was a boy, and his own father had forever and always insisted on gun safety, and Edward had passed this onto his own sons, and as well to his daughters. Never had Andrea or Samantha or Ellen or Virginia even touched a firearm; Joshua and Peter and Franklin and Barry had only handled them after taking a sanctioned firearm safety class and then met their father's even stricter rules.  
  
NEVER point a gun at a human being.  
  
NEVER point a gun at a place where a human being might be without you knowing it.  
  
NEVER test a trigger pull without checking the chamber first.  
  
NEVER store a weapon in the same room with its ammunition.  
  
NEVER leave ammunition unlocked.  
  
NEVER leave a weapon anywhere without a locked trigger guard on it.  
  
NEVER joke about guns.  
  
#  
  
And so when Kevin joined Edward and Franklin at the shooting range he was surprised at the care and respect they showed toward their weapons. Kevin himself was safe enough with guns, having been trained as a policeman. But Edward Shaw's last rule made no sense to him; joking about using his gun on the Camdens or Robbie (wherever he had gone) was a long-standing practice to get them to do as he wished.  
  
Still, Kevin knew better than to joke now. He had taken the measure of Edward Shaw and had seen that in this respect the man was not to be trifled with.  
  
And there was no need to trifle, either. Clearly Edward had a certain view of policemen, and Kevin was happy to fill this role.  
  
Get the respect. That will give you an edge, an in.  
  
Edward was a fine marksman; Franklin too. They outscored Kevin on the first series of targets.  
  
"I don't get much practice with rifles," Kevin explained.  
  
Edward nodded.  
  
"Do you have much trouble with crime here in Glenoak?" he asked.  
  
Kevin shook his head. "It's a pretty quiet town. There's a serial armed robber we've been chasing for several years, but we'll catch him eventually. And some kids were harassing a little Moslem girl a few months ago, but we caught them."  
  
Edward nodded again. "Good thing. Those Moslems; you never know what they might be planning."  
  
Franklin nodded. Kevin nodded too.  
  
"That's a fine looking rifle, Mr. Shaw," Kevin said.  
  
Edward held up the weapon. "Call me Ed. Winchester, thirty-aught-six, Bushmaster scope. I dropped a deer at five hundred yards once with this."  
  
"Impressive. Franklin here tells me you have quite a collection."  
  
"There's a few. Some of them are antiques; I never shoot with those. You like guns, Mr. Kinkirk?"  
  
"I work with them. Seems like a good hobby to have as well."  
  
Edward watched as Franklin took aim. He helped him steady himself.  
  
The shot rang out.  
  
"Clean hit," Kevin said, checking the spot with his binoculars.  
  
"Franklin's got a good eye."  
  
"He does indeed."  
  
#  
  
The day ended with an invitation to dinner for Kevin, and Lucy too, of course, since she was his fiancée and therefore should socialize as he did. This was a small triumph; Kevin knew how hard it was to get close to families like the Shaws, which tended to be insular. He would have to make sure to coach Lucy on when she should speak and when she shouldn't, because it was clear that Edward Shaw had firm views on that. But it shouldn't be too hard, since he expected that Edward's wife would quickly shuffle Lucy out of the way to talk about cooking or other women's things anyway. It would be good for Lucy to see how good wives other than her mother behaved.  
  
And to boot it would give Kevin a chance to check out Edward's collection of guns, as well as anything else of interest that he might have.  
  
Then all Kevin would have to do is determine what the man would be willing to pay for the virtue and obedience of his free-spirited little daughter. 


	28. Secrets

Secrets  
* * *  
  
In all the world, the wide wide world, there were only three things that Simon Camden dared not divulge. This was good, for it is hard to keep too many secrets, especially in a household where the parents regard any independence in their children as a disturbing sign of social decay and where one's younger sister lives to learn things about everyone.  
  
So most of Simon's secrets were known, not just at home, but pretty much everywhere, which was why he had no real friends at school and no real friends at church, and why he was, in point of fact, a very lonely boy. This suited his parents, of course, because lonely boys are more studious, more respectful, and are less likely to fall in with the wrong crowd. This was the thinking of Eric and Annie, who figured that if they could constantly present Simon as a virgin preacher's boy to all the world, that this was what he would be.  
  
They were wrong about this.  
  
And they didn't know the three things.  
  
The first, of course, was Claire. No one but Claire and Detective Michaels knew that Simon had delivered Claire's baby and then dropped it off at the hospital. Claire certainly wasn't going to tell anyone, since she came from a disaster of a home and she knew that her father was prone to drunken rages, and Detective Michaels wasn't going to tell because he was, in the end, a man of integrity. He understood what Simon had done, understood why, and as a result he respected Simon in a way he didn't even respect Eric.  
  
The second secret was Samantha Shaw. She knew what had happened between herself and Simon, but as far as Simon could tell, only she. Why she had done it was still a mystery to him, but he knew she knew, and knew as well what would happen to him if either of them ever told. He had seen his parents and how they viewed sexuality, how they had allowed his older brother Matt to videotape them talking to Mary and Lucy about sex and then show it to his class, which had eventually led, among other things, to Mary being called a "porn star" and worse at school, and which, Simon suspected, had contributed to her sudden and complete downfall.  
  
For it's one thing to fight back against one boy snapping your bra, but when intimate questions you ask your parents in confidence become public knowledge, illicit, grainy copies of the tape appearing and being sold in crowded hallways like drugs, it stops being one boy but becomes the world. But that is another story, best told another time.  
  
For now, all we need consider about this is that Simon had seen how quickly and viciously his family could turn on their own.  
  
And then there was the third thing. In many ways the third thing was the most important, the deepest secret, deeper even than what he had done for Claire, than what he had done with Samantha. This was in some ways the darkest secret, but as well it was the one he least feared.  
  
This was Morris.  
  
#  
  
Morris, now, standing at his front door, his jeep parked out on the street in front of the Camden home, filled with boxes and bags. Simon looked around nervously, then remembered that Ruthie was across the street at the Shaw house. He invited Morris inside.  
  
"What's going on?" he asked.  
  
Morris shrugged, cracked his wry grin.  
  
"I'm leaving town, Camden. I thought you'd want to know."  
  
"What?"  
  
Morris shrugged again.  
  
"Why, man?" Simon pressed.  
  
"You know why."  
  
Simon looked around again. It was late afternoon, and a Friday, and he had nowhere he had to be tonight. He heard his mother working in the kitchen.  
  
Not here, he thought. Can't talk here.  
  
"Come on," he said, and he led Morris upstairs to his bedroom, locked the door, put on some music. Morris sat down on the bed.  
  
Simon took a chair and faced his friend.  
  
"Please tell me you're just kidding," he said.  
  
Morris shook his head. "I can't stay. You know that, Camden. You've known this was going to happen eventually. Eventually my folks were going to find out."  
  
A sudden spasm of terror shot through Simon.  
  
"How?" he asked.  
  
"Someone saw me, on the Promenade. You remember Phil? I was with him. someone saw us, word got back to my folks. I got home and they confronted me, and I decided I had to tell them. They were nicer than I thought they'd be. Gave me a whole hour to pack."  
  
Simon lowered his face into his hands.  
  
"Shit."  
  
Morris nodded. "San Francisco," he said then. "I've got some friends there, you know. They'll put me up until I find a place." He reached out and laid a hand gently on Simon's knee. "It'll be all right, Camden. In a way I'm relieved. No secrets anymore. Though I don't think my folks'll tell. You know how they are."  
  
"Yeah." Simon raised his head, looked at his friend. "Do they know ... us?" he asked.  
  
Morris shook his head. "No. Not their business, whatever else they may think about me. I'm still sorry about it, Camden. I really am."  
  
Simon laid his hand on his friend's. "It was never a problem. You know that."  
  
Morris nodded, cracked his wry grin again, drew back and pulled out a card from his pocket.  
  
"Listen. Here's the address of my friends. They'll always know where I am. You ever need anything, Camden, you call me. I owe you. Always will."  
  
They hugged, there in the room, and then Simon showed Morris back to the front door and walked him out to his jeep. God, he thought as his friend drove away. My best friend. My only friend.  
  
Life sucks. 


	29. Unoriginal Sin

Unoriginal Sin  
* * *  
  
Rebecca Shaw liked Ruthie Camden. She really did. Yes, there was still that whole issue of Ruthie not wearing skirts or dresses all the time, and of her occasionally visiting that unpleasant man with the chimpanzee, but despite all these things Rebecca liked Ruthie.  
  
This, of course, was because Ruthie liked God.  
  
Now, many people will say they like God. That's easy enough. But God is clever, you see. God knows everything, so he knows when you're just saying you like him, and he knows when you really mean it. Really meaning it, of course, manifests itself in having the right opinions, the right beliefs, and in making sure as many other people as possible also have the right opinions and right beliefs.  
  
This, of course, leads to right behavior. It is impossible to behave morally if you don't have the right opinions and the right beliefs. That much Rebecca knew with absolute certainty.  
  
Ruthie liked God, really liked him, and Rebecca could tell this. This was why she was so glad that Ruthie had befriended Virginia, because Virginia was lonely a lot and she was vulnerable, too, being a proper, shy girl, to the influences of ungodly friends. But Ruthie wasn't ungodly; her father was a Minister, and she loved to talk about God with Rebecca, listening carefully to what Rebecca said, which was certainly a good sign.  
  
"Jesus is an important part of my family," Ruthie told Rebecca today. They were in the kitchen, where Rebecca was preparing dinner and Virginia was peeling potatoes by the sink.  
  
"I'm so glad to hear that, Ruthie," Rebecca said, smiling at the young Camden girl. Ruthie smiled back obligingly. "Without Jesus, we would all be doomed to eternal hellfire. Jesus is the only way we can be saved from the sin of Eve and Adam."  
  
Ruthie nodded. "My dad says it's important to do good things," she said now.  
  
Rebecca pulled a package of meat from the refrigerator, cut open the package with an expert swipe of a fingernail.  
  
"Oh, yes," she answered. "It's very important. But do you know what the most important good thing you can do is, Ruthie?"  
  
Ruthie shook her head.  
  
"It's to save souls. Feeding the hungry is good, but it won't save those people from burning in the lake of fire. It's more important to put a Bible in the hands of a starving child than it is to put a piece of bread, because the body will eventually die, but the soul lives forever." Rebecca took a sharp knife and began cutting the meat into strips.  
  
"How do you save their soul?" Ruthie asked.  
  
"You don't," Rebecca said. "Only they can, by accepting the Lord Jesus Christ into their hearts as their personal Lord and Savior. If someone doesn't have Christ to take away their sins, God can't forgive them, and when they die they are cast into the pit, where they suffer for eternity. It doesn't matter how much good they may have done; without Christ, they are doomed."  
  
In her place, Virginia nodded.  
  
"And if they do have Christ?" Ruthie asked.  
  
Rebecca smiled, and her face became peaceful as she paused from her cutting. "Then, and only then, can a person know what love really is. If a person accepts the Lord Jesus Christ as their personal Lord and Savior, asking him for forgiveness of their sins, they will be pardoned and welcomed into heaven. They will be saved."  
  
Ruthie looked thoughtful.  
  
"Any sin?" she asked.  
  
Rebecca's face was still beaming as she turned to Ruthie.  
  
"Any sin. God's power to forgive is unlimited, Ruthie, if you have Christ. Those who accept Christ are forgiven for all the wrong they have ever done, or ever will do. It's God's gift to us, because he loves us."  
  
#  
  
Ruthie left later, to return home for dinner. Mom looked stressed and so Ruthie didn't say much to her, and later they all sat down and ate. And as they ate Ruthie looked around the table. Dad looked tired, like he always seemed to be these days. Kevin's face was expressionless, except when he looked at Lucy and smiled, at which time Lucy would beam back at him in adoration.  
  
Simon seemed preoccupied, as though something was worrying him. That was fairly typical anymore, but it had become hard lately for Ruthie to pry answers out of him. She had searched his room as she always did, turning up nothing unusual, but there was definitely something going on with him, something new. Sam and David were jabbering away, entertaining everyone with random quotes from gospel songs, then pointing at someone and laughing hysterically. When the person they pointed at joined in the laughter, the twins laughed harder, still pointing.  
  
Ruthie wondered, as she looked around the table, about Rebecca's words. There was something about them she liked and she was beginning to put her finger on it. She knew what sin was, of course; it would be impossible to be raised in the Camden household and not know that. And she knew that many of the things she did were sins. She enjoyed playing cruel tricks on her siblings, enjoyed that look on someone's face when they realized that their secret wasn't a secret from her, when they realized that she knew something shameful about them. And she had thought, from time to time, Ruthie had, about how much fun it would be to play even crueler tricks, things that would really hurt people.  
  
She had always held back from these types of things, though, because bad behavior like that was a real sin, a serious sin, and God could see those sorts of things. God could really hold you accountable.  
  
But Christ forgave. That's what Rebecca had told her. No matter what the sin, all was forgiven if you asked Christ for forgiveness. All you had to do was sincerely accept Jesus as your personal lord and savior and you could do anything.  
  
Anything.  
  
Anything you wanted.  
  
To anyone you wanted.  
  
And to make things even better, you could hurt them, really hurt them, and they might still go to hell while you went to heaven. God was your ally; God had to be your ally, because you had Jesus, and God had to hurt those other people even more than you had, because they had not accepted Jesus.  
  
Ruthie smiled at her family. Perhaps they were all saved, perhaps not. That didn't matter. Whatever she did to them, or to anyone, was all right.  
  
Sin had God's seal of approval.  
  
Ruthie Camden liked Rebecca Shaw. 


	30. Dinner and Delights

Dinner and Delights  
* * *  
  
Lucy took too long.  
  
He would have to do something about that, in time. She would have to learn that being ready meant when he was ready, not some silliness about her makeup or her clothes. This was a problem with women, of course; they couldn't be efficient. Learn to make yourself pretty, learn to pick out your clothes, when it doesn't inconvenience your man. Especially when your man was Kevin Kinkirk.  
  
But there would be time enough to train Lucy to respect him like that, once they were married. She was going to do a lot of things for him then, lots of fun things that would make him feel real good. And her family was going to do lots of good things for him too, as the years went by; Kevin knew that although they didn't make much money from the church, that Colonel guy back east was loaded.  
  
And Lucy worshipped Kevin with the kind of wide-eyed innocence normally reserved for the mentally retarded. She had her fits, of course, but that just added to the fun. Kevin knew, you see, that deep down she had no self-esteem and so in the end would always come crawling back to kiss his feet.  
  
Which would be happening, in a literal sense, soon enough.  
  
For now, though, he had to send her back to change her clothes.  
  
"Pants?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"This is a nice dinner, Lucy. You should try to look nice."  
  
"These are dress pants."  
  
"And I think it would be nice if you wore a dress, and not pants. Go and change now."  
  
She argued a bit, but in the end gave in. She always did.  
  
"God, I love that woman," he told himself as she hurried upstairs.  
  
#  
  
Pot roast, cooked to perfection. Steamed vegetables, boiled potatoes, a fine red wine for the adults and soda pop for the kids. We may say what we will about Rebecca Shaw's views on gender roles and Christianity, but to say that she could not cook well would itself be nothing short of blasphemous lie. For she could cook, Rebecca could, with both an instinct and years of training, from years of preparing meals with no other thought than her husband's approval, and Edward Shaw was a picky man.  
  
They ate in the large dining room, all of them together. Edward and Rebecca at opposite points, Kevin in the place of honor to Edward's right, Franklin to his left, Barry beside his brother. At the middle, facing one another, were the twin girls, Samantha beside Kevin and Ellen across from him, and then Virginia and Lucy beside Rebecca.  
  
You could cut the meat with your fork and let it melt in your mouth. It was that good.  
  
Kevin chatted idly with Edward and Franklin, his gaze occasionally going to Ellen, who ate quietly, seldom looking up. Ah, a shy girl, he thought. A shy, naughty girl. Want to go to Berkeley, do you? Want to wear makeup and kiss boys? Whatever will your parents say about that, I wonder?  
  
Beside him, the lovely Samantha sat coldly, stiff, never speaking. Virginia, beside her, spoke only when her mother addressed her. Beside Ellen, Lucy spoke from time to time, but quietly. She had addressed Edward when they first sat down, but Kevin had managed to silence her with a stare.  
  
Just talk to the women, my dear. Don't mess this up for me.  
  
Topics of conversation varied. Rebecca asked Lucy about her plans for a household once she and Kevin were married, and what names she liked for their inevitable children. She encouraged her to pressure her mother for the recipes with that delightful barbecue, and asked her about the colors for her bridesmaids' dresses.  
  
Lucy prattled happily about this.  
  
Edward, meanwhile, was grilling Kevin about politics. Now that that degenerate Democrat was out of office, there might just be hope for the country, assuming his Republican replacement didn't go all soft on those foreigners and assuming he kept his promises to the conservatives who had elected him. Kevin nodded and agreed, adding that he hoped that the Supreme Court would overturn some of those stupid laws requiring him to treat criminals with respect. Franklin listened carefully, attentively, and from time to time Kevin would give him a curt nod and a bit of a grin. Finally Edward asked Franklin his opinion about the Middle East.  
  
"There's going to be a war," Franklin said.  
  
Edward nodded.  
  
"My boy Joshua is in Kuwait right now," he said to Kevin.  
  
His voice was different as he said this. Softer. Then he cleared his throat. "Time we men talked," he said. "If you ladies will excuse us ...."  
  
Rebecca smiled up at him.  
  
"Of course, dear."  
  
#  
  
It was late now, warm in the garage apartment.  
  
Hard to sleep.  
  
Musket. Civil War regiment.  
  
Illinois regiment. See the engraving there? This thing's worth some money.  
  
Holding it with reverence. A piece of history, that. It had followed Sherman on his march to the sea, had come home in victory.  
  
And it was just one of the things Edward had.  
  
Some, of course, were heirlooms, handed down from father to son for generations. There was no hope of getting one of those. But there were other antiques, too, guns and a saber from the Indian Wars and even a samurai's katana brought home by a GI from Japan after World War II. The more valuable pieces were kept in a safe in Edward's study, there with his carefully inventoried and locked ammunition.  
  
Kevin didn't have anything like these things. Nothing at all. His family had no history of military service, no history at all, really. What a triumph it would be, to have an antique sword over his mantle, so that Ben could see it when he came to visit, and Kevin could impress him with stories about Gettysburg or something like that, the way Edward had impressed Kevin himself tonight.  
  
And how much better still it would be, if he could actually convince Edward to part with one of his antiques. That would be tough, Kevin knew. A real challenge.  
  
Because there was really nothing he could blackmail Ellen for. As far as he could tell she wasn't even allowed in the study where the good stuff was. She couldn't steal any of it for him, and she had nothing of value herself  
  
Almost. There was that one thing, that one crack in the fortress that was the Shaw family.  
  
Edward loved his kids.  
  
You could see it in him, in his eyes, could hear it in his voice. He pretended to be gruff and firm, like he thought a father should be, but deep down inside he loved them, and was helpless to that love. As well, Edward believed, truly and honestly, in heaven and hell, and there was that side to him, just there and almost imperceptible, that was terrified that when he went to heaven that one or more of this children wouldn't be there with him.  
  
The plan was coming together now, deep inside Kevin. He would, of course, sacrifice Ellen, and that would be entertaining. But it would be more than this, too. He would be saving her, not betraying her, at least in the eyes of Edward Shaw. He would be a hero, caring enough to turn her in even though she was not his daughter, was not part of his family. And the gratitude that Edward would feel toward him for helping to save her from sin would be overwhelming, and Edward would want to give him things, good things.  
  
Kevin smiled in the darkness. That sword was going to look marvelous over his mantle. 


	31. Online Stranger

Online Stranger  
* * *  
  
He was crafty, this one was.  
  
Edward had to admit a grudging respect for that at least. Tenacious, clever.  
  
But Satan often was that way.  
  
Satan and those who he had corrupted. Edward was certain of this now, certain that this man, whoever he was, had been taken in by the promises of the dark lord, the evil one, the fallen angel who had defied God's will. And oh, what rewards the stranger had reaped for this! He knew his Bible and knew it well. And he knew as well the works of the Jewish Rabbis, of the Muslim Koran, of the Hindu Vedas and the Analects of Confucius. He knew the Buddhist writings and he knew about American Indian paganism. In exchange for his soul the devil had paid him well with knowledge, and he was using that knowledge now to challenge Edward Shaw's faith to its limit.  
  
And Edward knew that he would have fallen under the assault of this man, this mysterious poster who he knew only by the nickname "Seeker", were it not for his undying faith in the Lord.  
  
That didn't mean it was easy.  
  
For the devil tempts you. It was he who tempted Eve in the garden of Eden, who let her bring about the fall of man.  
  
And now he was trying to bring about the fall of those who came to Edward's website. The battle was joined; light and darkness clashed.  
  
#  
  
"You are forgetting, Seeker, that the Bible shows clearly that Adam and Eve ate of the forbidden fruit and were exiled from Eden for their sin, a sin they have passed down to all of us. Only through the salvation of Jesus Christ can God accept us back, for God cannot be in our presence when we are tainted with sin."  
  
#  
  
"An interesting couple of points, Edward. I must point out, however, that the Bible in fact shows Adam and Eve being exiled from the garden of Eden because God feared they would achieve immortality, having already achieved the divine gift of knowing good and evil (Genesis 3:22). Hence, the 'fall' from Eden had nothing to do with the eating of the fruit by Eve and Adam, for which they were cursed in other ways (Genesis 3:14-19).  
  
"Second, am I reading you correctly when you say that God is incapable of being around us when we have sinned? This strikes me as odd, since last week you argued that God was omnipotent and could therefore do anything. Can you clarify your position on this? I'm confused."  
  
#  
  
Others joined in too, on both sides. Edward was thankful for the help from his fellow believers; whoever "Seeker" was, his energy and knowledge seemed limitless. Most of those who supported his opponent were crude atheists who didn't last; a few he banned for profanity and other trouble.  
  
And so it had gone on for months now.  
  
Edward wondered, oftentimes, who it was who was behind the keyboard on the other side. He had an e-mail address for the man, but it was an anonymous one, and despite Edward's best efforts at tracking his IP address, the man was always able to keep it hidden.  
  
Clever.  
  
Dangerous.  
  
Anonymous.  
  
This last feature had kept Edward from applying Eric's advice. How to find a weakness when you didn't even know the man's real name? There must be such weaknesses, some pain he could exploit to bring the man down, to show him that he needed Christ's salvation now, not later, not some other time.  
  
But if there were weaknesses, they never showed.  
  
It made it worse because "Seeker" was unfailingly polite. To ban him would be to admit defeat. What Edward didn't know about him the man knew about Edward, because Edward had posted a picture of his family on the site as an example of what a good Christian family could be.  
  
#  
  
"You have a lovely family, Edward. You must be very proud of them. And a big one, too, I see. Seven children. God has blessed you, I'd say."  
  
#  
  
"Thank you. Has God blessed you? I worry about you, Seeker. You seem to lack that feeling of God's love in your life. It shows in your desire to argue against the truth of the Bible. I pray for you, Seeker. Is there some particular thing I can pray about for you?"  
  
#  
  
"That's very kind of you, Edward. But there is no need to pray on my account. I would rather that you pray for peace on Earth, that you pray for tolerance and understanding among peoples of all faiths and cultures, that you pray for every child, regardless of their race or gender or the circumstances of their birth, that they have the same opportunities that you and I have enjoyed. That's what I pray for, when I pray."  
  
#  
  
Satan's words. Evil wrapped in a message of love. It had been getting worse lately, since the trouble in Iraq, since everywhere people were talking about it. Someone had started a thread about Iraq and everyone had weighed in there.  
  
Including his foe.  
  
Maybe this was a way in.  
  
#  
  
"Be careful when you talk about Iraq, Seeker. My son is in the army and he is currently in Kuwait. We have to support the troops over there. We have to support America."  
  
#  
  
"We are in agreement there, Edward. I too have someone close to me who is serving in the Middle East. I just hope that war can be avoided so neither of us has to worry about those we love. For the sake of our loved ones I believe that we have to try everything we can for peace before we start a war. And I believe as well that it is my duty as an American to make my opinion known to those in office, whether through voting or through peaceful protest. We do not live in a country founded on blind obedience but rather one built on reasoned and polite discussion of our differences, such as you and I have been having for these past several months. I hope that you have been enjoying them as much as I have, and that you have learned as much as I.  
  
"I will say an extra prayer for your son tonight."  
  
#  
  
Your son.  
  
Edward sat back, stared at his computer screen for some time. There had been an e-mail from Joshua today. It didn't say much; Joshua had never been one to send long letters. But he had sent the e-mail and Edward had responded and had printed the letter up to take home to Rebecca and the kids.  
  
Joshua.  
  
He had taught Joshua to shoot, and now remembered taking him hunting, sometimes with Peter, sometimes just the two of them. Joshua had been a cheerful boy and had grown up into a cheerful man. He was serious, of course, about the Bible, but he liked a good joke and he always seemed to have a smile on his face. Edward remembered meeting his drill sergeant when Joshua had graduated from boot camp, remembered shaking the man's hand.  
  
Your son is a good soldier.  
  
A good soldier.  
  
And now, far away from home, in a land filled with non-Christians, his son the good soldier was waiting to go to war.  
  
Edward knew the politics of it, knew his own. He knew that Christians were engaged in a constant struggle against atheism, against other religions that would like nothing more than to destroy them and stamp out the word of Christ from the world. He knew that men like Joshua were the ones keeping America safe from these people, from the terrorists who had killed 3000 people on 9-11, from those who would strike again if they could with a nuclear bomb, with smallpox, with nerve gas. He should be proud of his son, and he was.  
  
But deep inside, Edward was afraid for him as well.  
  
He spent his lunch hour thinking about his family. When he got home he had only had time to remove his tie when the policeman rang the doorbell downstairs, a plastic bag in his hand. 


	32. Crime

Crime  
* * *  
  
Watch now. Kevin comes in, still in uniform, tall, his one hand holding the dark plastic bag and the other resting casually on his service revolver. He has that slight, hungry grin you've seen before, that look you've known when he lets his eyes roam over your body the way that some men do. Watch as your mother admits him, and your father comes to him, your father's face tired from a long day. Watch as your mother stands nearby, listening.  
  
Watch.  
  
Can you?  
  
There is something in the air, a tension, barely perceptible. Like a ripple going through the world, begun by his words, the policeman's words, the policeman who lives across the street and who you decided when you met him that you would never speak to him.  
  
Such was your promise, her promise. Knowing bad, something bad, sensing it.  
  
Samantha.  
  
Watch her now. She stands, there by the stairs, just watching. She is lovely as she watches, as she stands, as the words come to her, not intended for her but impossible to miss. And there is no expression on her face, only the neutral look she has for so long cultivated, the look that hides so very much, that fools all of us.  
  
Watch. Because it is she, now, who watches.  
  
#  
  
He was admitted, of course, with a smile from Rebecca, who he acknowledged with a nod.  
  
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Shaw. Is your husband here?"  
  
"He just got in, Kevin. Barry, will you run and get your Daddy?"  
  
Barry nodded and bounded up the stairs. Edward appeared shortly.  
  
"Good afternoon, Kevin."  
  
"Ed."  
  
Her father noted the tone; so did she.  
  
"Is there something wrong, Kevin?" Edward asked.  
  
Kevin reached up with his free hand, scratched his brow. "Well," he said, "I'm not really sure. At first I thought it might be something really serious, but maybe it's not. I saw Ellen the other day, hiding this." He raised the plastic bag. "I thought it might be drugs, something like that, so I checked it. It wasn't, but after I looked at it I thought you should know about it. Maybe I'm overreacting, and it isn't a problem. But I don't think that's up to me to decide."  
  
Rebecca's face paled a bit. "What is it? What do you mean?"  
  
"Here." Kevin handed the black plastic bag to Edward. "She was keeping it under a rock across the street. I suppose she wanted to keep it hidden for some reason."  
  
Edward took the bag, opened it. Samantha, from her place, saw his face as he drew out the first thing inside, saw as he did what it was. She saw him tense, just a little bit.  
  
Colorful pictures. Cute boys. Fall fashions.  
  
Then he pulled out the second thing, the heavier one. His eyes went wide.  
  
"Barry," he said softly, "go and tell Ellen to come down here."  
  
Barry nodded, hurried back up the stairs. Still Samantha watched.  
  
Edward stared at the magazine, the thick catalog. After a moment he looked back at Kevin.  
  
"Thank you," he said. "Will you please excuse us now?"  
  
Kevin nodded. "Of course."  
  
He stepped to the door. Rebecca closed it gently after him. She turned her attention back to Edward. He was still holding the bag, the magazine, the catalog, and his hands shook a bit, as though to touch the things caused him pain.  
  
Samantha heard motion on the stairs. She looked up.  
  
Ellen. Seeing, stopping short.  
  
"Come down here, Ellen," Edward said.  
  
She hesitated.  
  
"I said come down here."  
  
Now she came.  
  
#  
  
Small, she seemed, standing there. Dad and Mom before her, Dad still holding the plastic bag, its contents. His voice, very calm, very even. Only his hand still shaking a bit.  
  
"What are these things, Ellen? Are they yours?"  
  
A part of Samantha tensed, the words coming to her unbidden.  
  
Lie, she thought to her sister. Just lie. It isn't that hard. We can blame those Camden kids, across the street. That little girl Ruthie, Virginia's friend. We can blame her.  
  
But why would one of the Camden kids hide something like this?  
  
And why would that policeman bring it over here and say what he said?  
  
Ellen was trembling now, and Samantha saw that a lie would do no good. Ellen had been caught with a teen magazine before; she had given in to temptation. And more than this she had been accused by a man, by an adult, by a policeman. Her word, lie or not, would count for nothing.  
  
"I asked you a question, young lady," Dad said.  
  
Her gaze down, Ellen nodded.  
  
It was silent for a moment. Samantha saw Dad's face go red, his hands white where they gripped the heavy catalog tightly. Then, suddenly, the hand lashed out, the catalog impacting the banister with a loud smack and falling to the floor.  
  
Ellen flinched.  
  
He took the magazine then, stared for a moment at the cover. He flipped it open. Brittany Spears appeared in a full page glossy. He shoved this at Ellen.  
  
"Is this what you are, Ellen?"  
  
She said nothing, her gaze still down.  
  
"Look at me, young lady! Is this what you are? A whore? You want to be a whore?"  
  
There were tears in her eyes as she looked at him, the trembling still there, growing worse.  
  
"No, Daddy. Please ... it's not ...."  
  
"Not what? Not a sin? Not a sin to show yourself off to every man who happens by? Not a sin to flaunt yourself like Jezebel?" He ripped the page from the magazine, shoved it at her. "This is a whore and you want to be just like her, don't you?"  
  
Ellen stood frozen in terror. Dad was trembling now, Mom just watching, her own face drawn. On the stairs Barry stood still, and Samantha sensed as Franklin appeared beside her.  
  
"Answer me!" Dad shouted then. "You want to be a whore, don't you?"  
  
"No ...." the girl whispered. "No ...."  
  
"Don't lie to me! Why else would you be looking at this filth?"  
  
Ellen was crying now, and she brought her hands up and buried her face in them.  
  
"Look at me when I talk to you!"  
  
"Please, Daddy .... I'm sorry ...."  
  
Dad threw the magazine to the floor. His other hand brought the catalog up from where it lay, then brought it down hard again on the banister. His face was white now with fury.  
  
"And what is this, Ellen? What in the name of God is this?" He reached out, pulled her hands from her face, shoved the catalog before her. She cried out. "Do you know what this is?"  
  
Ellen tried to speak now, failed.  
  
"This is sin!" Dad bellowed. "Do you have any idea what this place is? They hate Christ there! They hate God! They fornicate and teach lies and death there! But you want that, don't you? You want to go to hell, don't you, Ellen? You want to burn in hell like a whore because you love lust and you love sin, don't you?"  
  
He went silent then, and with his silence there was silence in the house, broken only by Ellen's sobbing. Mom watched him, unmoving, and Franklin did, and Barry did, and from behind Barry Virginia did. And no one spoke or dared to make a sound.  
  
In time, Dad's breathing calmed. He looked down at Ellen, still holding the catalog. And in time, he spoke, his voice soft now.  
  
"Go upstairs, to your mother's and my bedroom," he said.  
  
Ellen looked up at him, her face drawn in terror.  
  
"Please ...." she moaned. "No ...."  
  
"I said to go, Ellen." 


	33. And Punishment

And Punishment  
* * *  
  
She went. Barry and Virginia scampered out of the way as she did, as Dad followed her, as Mom followed him. Samantha watched this, and as though it was all a dream she moved now, one step and then another, to the stairs, up and up, only faintly aware of Franklin beside her, up and up, to the hall on the second floor, watching as Ellen stepped through the door at the end of it, and then Dad, and then Mom.  
  
The door closed behind them.  
  
#  
  
It was quiet for a time, maybe an hour, another. After a time the four children drifted away, settling aimlessly in the living room. Mom came out then, came downstairs to them, directed Samantha to make something for dinner for the others, saying nothing to the expressions on Franklin's face, on Barry's, on Virginia's. She reached out and touched at Samantha's cheek.  
  
"Go on, dear."  
  
Samantha nodded. Mom turned and stepped back up the stairs. Samantha's expression did not change, and she led her sister and brothers to the kitchen and cooked them something, set the table and watched them eat slowly. But they did eat, for they were hungry.  
  
They were just finishing when the first cry came from upstairs.  
  
Samantha took their plates and glasses to the sink, washed them clean, set them to dry. She wiped the counter and looked up, out the window, saw that it had grown dark outside, the time passing unnoticed. She dried her hands, turned, saw that the table was empty.  
  
As she reached the base of the stairs she looked down at the picture torn from the magazine, reached down and took it and looked at it.  
  
Pretty hair, pretty face. Makeup, tight pants. Were these things wrong? How? Why? To be pretty, to want to be pretty, the way Ellen wanted to, the way other girls, girls like Lucy Camden, there at dinner, wanted to be?  
  
This is wrong? This is an affront to God?  
  
Why? Why, God? Why is my father so angry?  
  
Nothing. Her prayers, as they always were, were met with silence.  
  
She let the page fall and climbed the stairs.  
  
#  
  
The others were there, just standing, mute. Barry, Virginia, Franklin. They faced the closed door and now Samantha moved up beside them. None acknowledged her arrival.  
  
Another cry, from behind the door. The sound of leather striking flesh.  
  
Dad was using his belt.  
  
Barry whimpered softly. Another cry, another. Samantha reached out, took Barry's hand in hers, felt him grip her tightly.  
  
And still they stood, the four of them, facing the closed door as each sharp crack of leather resounded down the hall, as the cries and pleas followed them, one and then another, methodical, mechanical, efficient like a machine stamping out parts, premolded, indistinguishable, each identical to the last.  
  
They, the four who stood, could not move. Their faces were all like Samantha's now: empty and blank and expressionless. What thoughts they might have had were no longer clear, no longer apparent.  
  
And still came the crack of leather, the sound of impact, the cries.  
  
Samantha remembered now.  
  
She did.  
  
Not so long ago. Not so far, was it?  
  
The belt, the rage, the fear. Standing then as she was standing now, facing another closed door, Joshua beside her, Peter beside him. Franklin there, small like she was. And Ellen, too, there, standing, staring at the door.  
  
Hearing the sounds, the leather, the cries.  
  
Wondering why. Not understanding.  
  
Andrea.  
  
Joshua took her hand. Her big brother, always there. Safe and good and with a ready smile. And in there, in the room, her big sister, Ellen's big sister, Franklin's big sister. Peter and Joshua's big sister.  
  
A snap, a cry.  
  
Andrea.  
  
The name not spoken in their house, not anymore.  
  
#  
  
In time, perhaps short, perhaps long, the telling of it not being clear to her, the cracks and the cries ended, and it was silent in the hall. Still they stood, she and her brothers and her little sister, Barry's hand still gripping hers. She looked over at Franklin briefly, saw that Virginia was clinging to him, holding close, her eyes still on the door.  
  
The door.  
  
It opened now, and Dad emerged.  
  
Samantha saw, just for a few seconds, behind it. Ellen there, by the bed, on her knees, her hands locked in prayer, rocking back and forth, her sobs just audible. And then the door closing behind Dad, and Dad walking to her, to them. She looked up at him as he did, saw his face, drawn, tired, pale.  
  
"Samantha, put Barry and Virginia to bed, then yourself. Franklin, come with me."  
  
"Yes, Sir," she said, and she took Virginia's hand in her free one and led her and Barry away from the door, to the bathroom, where she supervised them as they brushed their teeth, then as she got Barry into his pajamas and tucked him in, kissing him on the forehead and then turning off the light there, and then helping Virginia into her nightgown and sitting with her on her bed, giving her hair its 100 strokes with the brush before tying it back with a silk ribbon and tucking her in as well.  
  
"Samantha?" her sister asked.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Is Ellen gonna be all right?"  
  
Samantha said nothing; a lie she could not tell, not here, not to this one. A lie would be known or become known, now or later, and she knew this. Instead she leaned forward and kissed Virginia gently on her forehead.  
  
"I love you, Virginia. You sleep now," she said softly, and she stayed in the room until she did.  
  
She checked Barry a last time, and then moved to her own door.  
  
#  
  
There, Samantha changed into her nightgown and lowered herself into her bed, drawing the covers over herself. It was quiet in the room; she was used to the presence in the other bed, the slight sound of breathing, of occasional movement beneath the covers there. But there was nothing now, in the dark.  
  
Nothing except the weight of it, on her.  
  
She felt this now, heavy, felt as this weight pressed her down, holding her in place. It was unfamiliar to her and she found as she lay that it frightened her. Her breathing became labored, almost painful, her own body a burden now, as she lay.  
  
In time, Samantha heard the door open and she heard her parents and her sister step into the room. A few quiet words were exchanged, these barely intelligible to her, and then she sensed her father leave and she heard as her mother helped Ellen prepare for bed. She then heard Ellen's covers thrown back, heard a quiet whimper of pain as her sister lowered herself against the mattress there.  
  
Their mother left then, and it was quiet again in the room. Ellen whimpered once more, moving now and again to try and sleep, failing at this and moving again. Her sobs were quiet in the darkness.  
  
Through this Samantha did not move, did not speak, though she was not asleep. She could not, held as she was beneath the burden that was over her, breathing still a struggle.  
  
And in time, as time passed in the bedroom, Samantha began to understand the nature of the weight that held her. Like a faint light the realization of it came, like a door just cracked open into a darkened room. And in time she felt as the weight became not on her but in her, settling there. It was still heavy, like ripened vines in a vineyard rich with fruit, heavy for the harvest, for the vintage, heavy with the wrath that she knew now would come. 


	34. Stormy Weather

Stormy Weather  
* * *  
  
It rained the next day in Glenoak. This was unusual, for Glenoak sat in the middle of that part of California where it was always clear and pleasant, the clouds of the storms of the world seeming to pass the town by. This was a meteorological peculiarity that had long ago attracted the attention of the National Weather Service, who had set up a monitoring station just outside of town, but even after seven years of data collection, the nation's finest scientists were still unable to explain it.  
  
But it rained in Glenoak, the next day. Not just a passing shower, but one of those steady, oppressive rains that just go on and on, obscuring the sun, the blue sky. It was cold rain, too, for after all it was the middle of January, and this cold went straight to the bone, leaving an ache even in those fortunate enough not to have to go out into it.  
  
From our story this included Annie, who was nonetheless tormented by a leak in the roof that had gone unnoticed for many years, and of course Sam and David, who sat at the window of the living room looking out with wonder at this marvel of nature that they had only rarely seen. The other Camdens and Kevin were not so lucky, being cursed with school and work, which caused a frantic search for long-lost umbrellas, galoshes, and raincoats in the early hours of the morning.  
  
Because of home-schooling and the conviction that a woman's place was in the home, the Shaws were more fortunate with regard to the weather, with the notable exceptions of Edward and Franklin, whose work duties required them to go outside. They faced this unpleasantness with an uncharacteristic quiet, pulling on the right shoes and raincoats, their eyes averted even from one another, and then Edward climbing into his car and Franklin hopping onto his bicycle and each heading out into the downpour of early dawn.  
  
And the rain fell, and Sam and David sat at the window of the Camden home, hearing their mother grumble in the background as she emptied buckets upstairs. Peering through the rain, the two little boys could just see the Shaw house in the gloom, could just see the lights on in the windows there.  
  
"In the bleak midwinter, frost wind made moan," said David.  
  
"Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone," answered his brother.  
  
Across the street, one of the lights upstairs went out. 


	35. Watch Her

Watch Her  
* * *  
  
Watch her.  
  
That's what he was told.  
  
Watch her.  
  
By his father, that night. That night when Dad had taken him aside, had taken him downstairs and had sat him at the kitchen table and looked at him for a long time before speaking, his face lined with weariness and pain.  
  
Watch her, Franklin. You are the one who has to.  
  
He was afraid at first that Dad was mad at him for not learning of the magazine and catalog. Because he was supposed to know about these things, Franklin was. He was supposed to watch his sisters and keep an eye on them, was supposed to have authority over them. How had she gotten the magazine, the catalog? How had she managed to buy them when every time she went shopping either he or Mom or Dad was with her?  
  
How could this have happened?  
  
It didn't matter just now. Dad had not been angry with him; it wasn't his fault. Instead of anger he had simply talked with Franklin, had talked for a long time.  
  
Here are the new rules for her.  
  
She never leaves the house alone.  
  
She is never to be left alone in a store or anywhere outside the house, unless it's the bathroom, and then she has five minutes.  
  
She is never to handle money.  
  
She is not permitted to carry a purse anymore.  
  
She is not to speak to anyone unless I, your mother, or you tell her it is all right.  
  
These went on for a while, rule after rule after rule. Dad made Franklin repeat each one, the rules about how she was to pray every hour except when sleeping, regardless, and how he was to pray for her too, every night before bed.  
  
I'm counting on you, son, his father told him then.  
  
#  
  
Watch her, he was told, and he did.  
  
But as he watched, as one day became the next, Franklin felt a growing unease. He would look at Ellen, give her an order, tell her to pray or tell her she had to come with him or something like that, and she did as she was told, each time, wordlessly. Her gaze was down all the time now, her voice soft, almost inaudible. Often he had to tell her to repeat herself so he could understand her.  
  
It was as though there wasn't a person in there anymore.  
  
This was odd. Franklin had never felt this way before, had quietly just accepted his role as caretaker of his sisters, as the one responsible for them. The first time Ellen had been caught with a forbidden magazine it had only reaffirmed what he had always been told about women, what the Bible told him about them: they were weak and vulnerable. Their bodies felt lust too deeply, and this put them at risk from Satan. The hunger for her husband that God had placed on Eve was why men had to protect women from themselves.  
  
You had to, as a man, because you loved them. Franklin loved Ellen, Samantha, Virginia. Theirs was a terrible struggle and it was his duty to help them, to provide the stable, moral guidance they needed to remain in God's grace. He had always been firm with Ellen because that was what she needed.  
  
But where was Ellen now?  
  
He tried, as the days passed, to convince himself that her new, quiet demeanor was because she was struggling inside, fighting Satan with all her heart, and what would emerge from this struggle would be his beloved sister, the girl he had once known, had once played with when they were little. He found himself watching her, sometimes, as she sat quietly or walked beside him, as she did what she was told, and it was all he could do to keep from just hugging her, just holding her, just telling her how much he loved her.  
  
But he had to remain firm, aloof. This was what he had to do, as a man.  
  
As a Christian, he could pray, and he did.  
  
Was this enough? Why the unease? Trust your heart, Max had told him once. Trust your gut, your instincts. They'll seldom lead you wrong, Franklin.  
  
But that's what this felt like now. Wrong. He was in charge of her, after Dad and Mom. He bore the responsibility for her. If it went wrong he would bear some of the responsibility for that too. Maybe that was why he kept thinking about it, about that night, about standing in front of the door as the sickening sound of leather against flesh echoed through it, as he heard his sister beg and weep. Leather, flesh. Hard and again and again. Standing there and then feeling Virginia against him, holding him, and thinking to himself God, I should take her away. Virginia's just a little girl and she shouldn't have to hear this. But not moving, not being able to move, made paralyzed and mute by the sounds from behind the door.  
  
Not being a man.  
  
He wanted to be, of course. It is the nature of boys Franklin's age to want to be men. But what is a man? What is his measure?  
  
I don't know, Franklin thought. Does a man give orders to his sister the way I now have to give them to Ellen? Does a man look into her eyes and see her pain and do nothing? Does a Christian? Didn't Christ come to minister to the weak, to the frightened? Didn't he say that whatsoever you do to the least of my creatures, that you have done unto me? Didn't he say you had to love and forgive, that if your fellow sins and repents and then sins again, and repents, that you were to forgive, each time, forever?  
  
Leather. Flesh.  
  
Ellen, wincing as she sat, even after a week, two weeks.  
  
And never really speaking, never really saying anything.  
  
Just doing what he told her to.  
  
#  
  
And so the days passed and Franklin was very alone, riding his bicycle and tossing newspapers on people's lawns, or studying, or reading his Bible, or praying.  
  
He found himself thinking about Max a lot. He wished Max were here. Max would know what to do. Max would be able to help him.  
  
Max. The cop.  
  
Kevin.  
  
Kevin wasn't Max. It came to Franklin then, one day, as he sorted the newspapers for his morning run. Max had always paid for his newspaper, and had even added a tip for a clean one. Kevin had never paid, not once.  
  
He didn't even say thank you anymore. 


	36. Living by the Sword

Living by the Sword  
* * *  
  
It worked well. So well, in fact, that even he was surprised. Just a quick visit to the Shaw house, again making sure he was in his uniform, a polite ringing of the bell, a moment's surprise at the tired, drawn look on Rebecca's face.  
  
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Shaw. I hope you don't feel it is presumptuous of me, but I felt that I should check on all of you, both professionally and personally."  
  
She admitted him, guided him to the living room, bade him sit while she went for Edward.  
  
Who as well looked bad. Tired, drawn. Kevin forced himself not to smile, forced a concerned look onto his face. A little extreme, he thought, to let something as simple as a stupid teen magazine bother him like that. Patty Mary had read those sorts of things all the time and it hadn't done her any harm. And the college catalog? College cost money, and as long as you made sure your wife or daughters never had any money to speak of, they'd never go to college. Simple, really.  
  
Kevin rose, extended his hand.  
  
"How are you, Ed?" he asked.  
  
"Tired," the man admitted, his handshake a bit weak. "It's been hard."  
  
"I can imagine."  
  
Actually, Kevin couldn't. But no matter.  
  
"I feel a bit responsible," he said to Edward now. "In my job I see a lot of kids in trouble. I hate to see it happen to the daughter of a friend."  
  
Edward looked at him, nodded.  
  
"We appreciate that, Kevin. Thank you. You did the right thing. Heaven knows where Satan would have taken her. There's so much evil out there ...."  
  
Kevin nodded and Edward's voice drifted off. They sat silently for a moment.  
  
"Is there anything else I can do, Ed?" Kevin asked then. "Kids need a lot of guidance these days."  
  
Edward nodded again. "You've already done so much," he said. "It's good to know that you're close, that you're keeping an eye on them. There are so few good neighbors in America anymore."  
  
Kevin nodded, doing his very best to show concern, attentive to the man's every word. "There are a lot of bad people out there, Ed. We have to stick together, men like you and I."  
  
Silence again. Edward rubbed his brow, looked at Kevin.  
  
"Rebecca and I want you to know how much we appreciate it, Kevin," he said. "This wasn't part of your job, policing our kids. I just wish there was something I could do for you."  
  
#  
  
Bingo. Hook, line and sinker.  
  
Too easy.  
  
And so Kevin sat now, up in his apartment, the antique saber from the Indian Wars in his hands, stroking the hard leather sheath and wondering if he had ever felt better than this. He pulled out the weapon, waved it around a bit. He wondered if it had ever killed anyone.  
  
History. In his hand. And power, too. Power was good.  
  
Too easy.  
  
Stupid Christian sucker. No woman, no girl, could ever be worth what those idiot Shaws were putting themselves through over their daughter.  
  
Kevin shrugged. Oh, well. So much the better for him. He'd have to keep an eye on those other Shaw kids now. Maybe Franklin had some real porno stashed somewhere; Kevin certainly had, at that age. That would get him some real points with Ed and Rebecca.  
  
Heck, maybe he could just plant some on the kid. Something believable like a lingerie ad from one of those papers Franklin delivered. Valentine's day was coming up, and there were always some sexy underwear ads coming out then, so it would be easy to explain.  
  
Stupid damn Christians. No wonder the Romans had killed them. Now, the Romans, they had been real men.  
  
"What's that?"  
  
The question snapped Kevin out of his reverie. He looked up and over at the trapdoor that was the entrance to his apartment.  
  
Ruthie was there, her face propped up in her hands, looking at him.  
  
Now, we must take a moment to consider Kevin's opinion of Ruthie. On the one hand, she was just a girl, too young for real fun, and so was hardly worth paying any attention to; she had nothing she could give him, after all. He had to be nice to her, of course, for the time being anyway, because she was Lucy's sister and Lucy was his fiancée.  
  
But there was something more to Ruthie, another reason that Kevin was always friendly to her. This was an intangible, something we cannot quite define. For Kevin sensed something in Ruthie, something familiar. He liked that. He liked the way Ruthie was always in everybody's business, the way she always managed to avoid punishment.  
  
And there was another part of Kevin, deep inside, well hidden, that said more, that warned him.  
  
Don't trifle with this one. Don't.  
  
"It's an antique saber from the Indian Wars," he said. "Come on; take a look."  
  
She climbed up into the apartment and walked over to him. He extended the weapon to her and she took it. It was too big for her but she still held it with confidence.  
  
"Neat," she said. "Where'd you get it?"  
  
He gave her his patented, frozen grin. She handed the sword back to him, and he resheathed it.  
  
"Well, Ruthie, sometimes people do nice things for you, if you do something for them. I did a good deed, and someone was grateful."  
  
"Mr. Shaw?" Ruthie asked.  
  
Kevin stiffened. He nodded.  
  
"Why, yes," he said. "How did you know?"  
  
Ruthie smiled mysteriously.  
  
"He's the only one around here who collects weapons. Except, I suppose, for you. That must have been some favor."  
  
Kevin set the sword aside, pulled himself up. "Well, Ruthie, I'm sure your parents have told you that no good deed goes unrewarded. You should remember that."  
  
Her smile remained.  
  
"Oh, I will. Thanks."  
  
"You're welcome," Kevin said to her. "Shall we see if your mother has dinner ready yet?" 


	37. John 1:1 to 5

John 1:1 to 5  
* * *  
  
There. In her.  
  
She could feel it, all the time now, deep inside. Building.  
  
It was still, as yet, unfamiliar, for it was not in her nature to feel this way. Always before it had been possible to let it pass by, to just watch and see as in time what happened would happen, as the dance that went on around her swirled and turned, each playing their roles, each doing what they would do.  
  
She remembered the last time. That memory had lain unused for many years now, but now it had reemerged, the way their faces looked, the pain, and then the day that Andrea had turned 18, the day she had packed a bag and walked out the door.  
  
Without a word.  
  
Only that look on her face, that look that said nothing and that said everything, that was anger and rage and pain.  
  
She thought about Andrea a lot these days, Samantha did.  
  
And she felt as the weight grew, hidden beneath her perfect exterior. The perfect daughter, the beautiful daughter.  
  
The daughter they trusted.  
  
Without good cause.  
  
#  
  
It was she, of all of them, who saw. It was she who understood. Perhaps love and faith had made them blind, or perhaps it was not love or faith but fear. Perhaps. But this did not matter, not to Samantha, because she saw, she understood. We may wonder if this was because she was Ellen's twin, fraternal, yes, but twin nonetheless. It was with Ellen that Samantha had always shared her room and her clothes and her toys and her chores and her studies. It was with her that she had shared the intimate talks between sisters, with her and her alone that Samantha had shared the truth of what she did to boys like Simon Camden.  
  
Yes, it was she.  
  
She who saw that Ellen was not Andrea, that the discipline and punishment that had hardened Andrea, that had driven her walk out of her 18th birthday party with a bag, never to return, hard and angry and denunciatory, was she who saw that this same discipline and punishment would not harden Ellen but would instead destroy her. Ellen, Samantha knew, was strong, but not in this way but in another, in her passion and her love of the world, the colors and the sounds and the smells and the feel of it. She was strong in the way a poet is strong, answering her muse and seeking God not in a book but in living, in seeing, in feeling. This was Ellen; she would not and could not hate their parents as Andrea had, would not and could not hate anyone save one.  
  
Save that one she hated now. That one that Mom and Dad told her she must hate, told her that she must pray to defeat, to drive away.  
  
Pray now, Ellen.  
  
"I cast thee out, Satan. I cast thee out, lust. I cast thee out, temptation. I cast thee out, evil."  
  
I cast thee out, Ellen.  
  
#  
  
And the word came to Samantha Shaw, fueled by this new weight within her but fueled as well by every day that passed now, as the red marks she saw on her sister's thighs and buttocks slowly healed but as Ellen never spoke, never said anything unless you spoke to her first, and then her reply came only a short, soft monotone.  
  
In the beginning was the Word.  
  
And now, on this day, Samantha Shaw spoke the word, and in her speaking of it the word became.  
  
No.  
  
That was all, that day, but in speaking that word, that one word, there came a change to Samantha. She knew the new rules, that Ellen was to pray, every hour, was to cast out the devil, and that before bed she was pray even more, kneeling. She did this now, Ellen did, without being told to, kneeling in her nightgown by her bed, her head down, her hands clenched together.  
  
"Please, God, please I'm bad I'm sinful I burn with lust please God save me, please Jesus, forgive me, I'm dirty and in sin ...."  
  
And the Word was with God.  
  
No.  
  
It was quiet now, in the bedroom, and Ellen was there, kneeling, her words soft, rocking a bit as she whispered them.  
  
"Please forgive me, Jesus, I'm bad and I'm dirty and I'm sinful ...."  
  
And the word was God.  
  
"No."  
  
Samantha rose from her bed. Her stockinged feet made no sound in the carpet as she walked around her bed, around her sister's bed, to where her sister knelt.  
  
He was in the beginning with God; all things were made through him.  
  
Samantha knelt beside Ellen, took her hands into her own.  
  
Ellen turned and looked at her. There was no expression there, on her face. And Samantha spoke then, again. She spoke the word that was in the beginning and that was the beginning, the word that was this new truth, and other words followed.  
  
"No, Ellen. Stop now. Stop now."  
  
Ellen stopped praying and said nothing, obedient.  
  
"Come on," Samantha told her now, and she guided her up to sit on the bed, and she sat beside her. Samantha put her arm around her then, held her close. Ellen's gaze dropped and they sat this way for a little while.  
  
And without him was not anything made that was made.  
  
Samantha held her sister close. She could feel her warmth, through the heavy flannel of their nightgowns, could feel the shape of her arm, her back, her shoulders. And now that she had spoken the word Samantha had no others, just now, and so she simply held Ellen close.  
  
And in time it was Ellen who spoke.  
  
"I have to pray."  
  
In him there was life, and the life was the light of men.  
  
"No you don't."  
  
"God hates me. I have to pray."  
  
The words, as before, were a monotone, quiet. There was nothing behind them, nothing familiar. And the wrath that was within Samantha grew, heavy on the vine, heavy for the vintage. She knew its time would come and there would be no mercy in its coming.  
  
But for now, she spoke again.  
  
The word.  
  
"No. Look at me, El."  
  
The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.  
  
Slowly, Ellen turned her head. Her face was hidden beneath her hair, hidden in shadow in the low light of the room. Samantha reached up and teased away the strands of hair to reveal her sister's face.  
  
"Listen now," Samantha said. "You are my sister. You are my beautiful, wonderful sister. God himself does not know enough words to describe how much I love you. You did nothing wrong."  
  
Ellen blinked.  
  
"I have to pray, Sam. I have to, because ...."  
  
Her voice drifted off. She tried to move from the bed and back to the floor, but Samantha held her. Samantha spoke again.  
  
"Mom and Dad do not own God, El. The Bible does not own God. God is bigger than they are. God knows you and he loves you, can't you see? Like I love you, El; you're my sister. Please ...."  
  
But Ellen had broken free of her hold, and she had returned to her knees, and her soft prayers again filled the room. 


	38. Help Her

Help Her  
* * *  
  
It is said that life is measured in seconds and in years, but seldom in minutes or hours. In a way this is true; we remember seconds, ticking away. They are with us always, one and then another. As each one passes there is another to take its place, and we live in those seconds, on and on and on.  
  
Until it is years that have passed.  
  
Eric Camden thought about that, these days.  
  
He was older. Seconds had passed and become years and now he wondered where they had gone. He had been a boy, chafing under a strict father, rebelling by stepping away from military service, from tradition, when he became a man.  
  
God had called him, and Eric Camden had answered.  
  
He wondered where those years were now. What was there to show for them?  
  
The party, where all those people who you had helped were gathered, where Lucy told you she was going to become a minister, was going to be like you?  
  
Was that wise of her? There was the gratitude, but gratitude by itself was ephemeral.  
  
What is your legacy, Eric Camden?  
  
He didn't know. Some might argue that it was his children, but he wondered if this was as true as they claimed. Matt was away, in New York, in school. A doctor, he would be someday. Eric could be proud of him.  
  
Mary? A career. Where are you, Mary? Why do I never hear from you? Was it that bad, the things I did for you, the way I tried to raise you, the person I wanted you to be? Do you still go to church, Mary?  
  
Lucy? Simon? Ruthie? Sam and David? Where am I, in all this? Where is Eric Camden? Do I have dreams?  
  
You are a minister. You do God's work.  
  
He thought back to when that had been enough. He thought back to when Lou had been an ally, not someone to suspect. He thought back to when he had thought more about his sermon than the latest budget.  
  
Christ had ministered without a budget, without even a church to speak in. And he had changed the world.  
  
#  
  
Eric was sore, just now, as he sat at his desk and worked. He seemed to be sore a lot lately and he wondered if he ought to push up the date for his next physical.  
  
And when, with your schedule, will you have time for that?  
  
We need you, Eric, the congregation always seemed to say. You are our leader, our patriarch. It is only through you that we can feel God, can know his grace. We are alone, we are lost, without you. Help me, help us.  
  
Eric sighed, took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes. The budget numbers were all starting to look the same.  
  
That was the moment that Edward Shaw knocked on his open door.  
  
Eric looked up.  
  
"Ed."  
  
"Eric. You have a minute?"  
  
They had not spoken since Christmas and Eric took a moment to look the man over. There was a fatigue in Edward that he had not seen before, like he hadn't slept well, the lines on his face seeming longer than they had been.  
  
"Sure," Eric said. "Come on in."  
  
Edward nodded, stepped into the office, sat down in the chair opposite the desk.  
  
"How've you been?" he asked.  
  
"Not bad," Eric answered. "You?"  
  
"All right."  
  
They each read the lie in the other.  
  
Eric leaned forward now, rested his elbows on the desk.  
  
"What can I do for you, Ed?"  
  
Edward didn't answer right away. Instead he looked around the office, at the walls, the books on the shelves, the lamp beside Eric's desk. Finally his gaze returned to Eric.  
  
"I understand that you do counseling," he said.  
  
Eric nodded.  
  
"I understand that you're good at it. That's what people say."  
  
Eric remembered the party, the waves of gratitude.  
  
"I try," he said.  
  
"You do it in a Christian way?" Edward asked.  
  
"Yes. What's this about, Ed?"  
  
Edward sighed. "I need your help, Eric."  
  
This, coming from Edward Shaw, struck Eric as odd. Shaw had never seemed like the sort of man who needed help, or who would ask for it; he was the epitome of the Christian father, a man in control of his life and his family, confident. Yes, he was also extreme, hardened. His were the stern views of Christ and God held by many, even many in Eric's own congregation.  
  
Even by Eric himself, sometimes.  
  
God the father. God the leader. A world where everyone knew their place, sanctioned by the divine.  
  
Sometimes. But not always.  
  
"How so?" he asked.  
  
"Ellen."  
  
"Ellen?"  
  
"She's been tempted, Eric. I've tried to stop it, tried to protect her. I've tried to give her the life God wants her to have. But --"  
  
His voice cut off abruptly, the pain in it almost palpable.  
  
Eric watched him closely. Edward blinked, wiped at his eyes. He spoke again.  
  
"I have it under control, the temptation," he said. "She's safe from Satan for now. But I'm afraid, Eric, that he has pulled her away from Christ, and I don't know how to bring her back. I have her pray every day, all the time, but it's like she's drifting away."  
  
Eric thought of Mary again, suddenly. Mary, drifting away from him. He had tried to hold her, to restrict her, to keep her close and under control. He had even enlisted his father, his stern, harsh, judgmental father, to help. And for nothing.  
  
He knew the look on Edward's face all to well.  
  
"I'll talk to her, if you like," he said. "I'll do my best."  
  
Edward nodded, a moment's relief washing over his features. They talked a little more, then, about Ellen. Trouble with pornography, with keeping secrets. Finally they set up an appointment. As he rose to leave Edward shook Eric's hand strongly.  
  
"Thank you, Eric," he said. "I lost one daughter to sin. I'm not going to lose another, even if I have to go to hell to get her back." 


	39. Appointments

Appointments  
* * *  
  
It is thought by many, particularly those who produce television shows in Hollywood, that being a Minister is a fairly simple job, easily trained for and done. You have to be able to speak in public, of course, and you have to know the Bible, and you have to be able to defend your theology and probably an official church doctrine against all those annoying skeptics that have been popping up ever since the Enlightenment.  
  
Now, it is well beyond the place of your humble narrator to question the eternal and undying wisdom of the producers of America's fine television programming, but the fact is that there is much more to being a Minister than just what they choose to show you on television. One may argue that it requires the skill in Hebrew, Aramaic and Greek needed to read the Bible in its original languages; one may state that Latin is necessary for the works of the Church Fathers and medieval commentators. And that would all be fine, too, and would make you a wonderful scholar indeed, to know these things.  
  
But it would not make you a Minister.  
  
For a Minister is not, or at least should not be, a theologian or a television star.  
  
A Minister's job is more important than these.  
  
This was, in fact, exactly what one of Eric Camden's teachers in seminary had once told him. Remember, he had said, that a Minister does not deal in the life of Christ but rather in the lives of Christians. If you are to minister to them you must be able to listen to them, to hear them, through good and bad, through births and marriages and divorces and funerals. You must be able to sit with the parents of a murdered child and do what you can to restore their faith in the world. You must be able to talk with the enraged, soothe the pain of the grieving, and you must be able to be the representative of God in the face of anger and blasphemy, and be able to forgive it.  
  
But most of all, this same teacher had told Eric Camden, you must be able to know when you are in over your head. There are some problems that you are not qualified to solve  
  
This was easy to forget sometimes.  
  
#  
  
For the first appointment Edward and Rebecca stayed the entire time. This meant, of course, that Ellen did very little talking, but Eric still felt the meeting was useful because he was able to learn a little more about what had happened. Ellen had been caught with some immoral literature once before, and it seemed to be becoming a habit. When Eric asked her about this she had not responded until prompted by her father, and then had said softly that she was dirty and sinful.  
  
Immoral literature. Pornography, an anti-Christian book. Edward and Rebecca had made Ellen burn the both of them, and would say no more about the details.  
  
The appointment ended then and afterward Eric took some time to review his notes. It was always good to consider your first impressions.  
  
Ellen was quiet. He remembered her being quiet before, at the barbecue, but all the Shaw girls had been quiet and he had thought nothing of it. But there was something different about her now, about the way she wouldn't look you in the eye, the way her shoulders were hunched now, her arms drawn close against her sides as though to protect herself.  
  
She's troubled, he told himself. Very troubled. Edward was right to bring her in.  
  
Eric supposed it could be the pornography. That was a common enough addiction these days, though usually it was with men. He had dealt with an astonishing array of teen issues in his tenure here in Glenoak, all of which seemed to strike the friends of his children. What were their names again?  
  
He had forgotten. There were so many friends and so many issues; it was like his kids had a new one every week.  
  
No matter.  
  
On the second appointment, three days later, Eric asked Edward to step outside and come back in an hour. The man looked at him for a moment, then nodded and went out to his car. Eric made sure he had left the church, then closed the door to his office and sat down again at his desk.  
  
Ellen had not moved. Eric uncapped his pen and set out a fresh sheet of paper.  
  
"How are you today, Ellen?" he asked.  
  
She didn't answer right away. When she did it was a whisper.  
  
"Fine."  
  
"How are things at your house?"  
  
"Fine."  
  
Eric set his pen down. She was looking at her feet.  
  
"You know, Ellen," he said, "whatever you say here, stays here. I won't tell anyone. You know I want to help you, that your parents want to help you. Maybe there's something you want to say that you don't want them to hear. That's all right; I won't tell. Only you and I will know."  
  
"And God," she said.  
  
Eric nodded. "Well, of course. But I think we can trust God."  
  
For the first time she looked up at him. Her voice was still soft as she spoke.  
  
"And the ten horns which thou sawest upon the beast, these shall hate the whore, and shall make her desolate and naked, and shall eat her flesh, and burn her with fire."  
  
Eric paused. "What was that?"  
  
"For true and righteous are his judgments: for he hath judged the great whore, which did corrupt the earth with her fornication, and hath avenged the blood of his servants at her hand."  
  
A chill went down Eric's spine now. "Wait," he said, but she did not.  
  
"Come hither; I will show unto thee the judgment of the great whore that sitteth upon many waters, with whom the kings of the earth have committed fornication, and the inhabitants of the earth have been made drunk with the wine of her fornication."  
  
Ellen went silent then, her gaze still down.  
  
Guilt, Eric thought. It's the weight of guilt. They're a conservative family and she's a girl becoming a young woman. And she tried something, looked at something she shouldn't have, got caught. He decided on a different angle.  
  
"You know, Ellen, your parents are very worried about you. They want me to help, and I want to help. Can you tell me what happened?"  
  
She brought her arms up, around her chest, holding herself tightly there.  
  
"Then when lust hath conceived, it bringeth forth sin: and sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth death."  
  
Eric seized at this. "Lust, Ellen? You feel lust? It's not an easy thing, you know, but we all have to deal with it. But it's only sinful if misused. In time, when you are married, it will become an important part of healthy adult relations."  
  
"They shall not take a wife that is a whore, or profane," she said.  
  
"Feelings do not make you a whore, Ellen."  
  
She still looked at him, from her place that seemed, suddenly, to be so very far away. And for the first time it was Ellen who spoke.  
  
"Yes, they do."  
  
"Why do you say that?" he asked.  
  
"It's in the Bible."  
  
"It's also in the Bible that God loves you and forgives your sins. God didn't give us the Bible to punish us, Ellen. He gave it to us to help us. Will you let me help you?"  
  
She didn't answer, but for the first time, Eric saw something more than just her stare, as though his words had finally sunk in. This was fortunate, as Eric Camden was accustomed to quick success with his clients. When Edward returned, Eric gave him some words of encouragement and set up another appointment for two days hence. As Edward walked Ellen out the door Eric looked after them and reflected on how fortunate she was to have a father who loved her as much as Edward did, and he resolved to do something nice for his own kids when he got home. 


	40. Two Pages

Two Pages  
* * *  
  
Evening came at last. He drove home slowly, pulled up and parked in front of the large house that was his own but that was not, that he lived in by the grace of his church. Normally Eric Camden didn't think about this; it was his house, his family's house. Normally it did not occur to him to see it any other way.  
  
Except when Lou reminded him of it.  
  
Eric didn't like Lou. Most of the time he didn't dislike him and in fact tried to think about him as little as possible. But this was not always easy because of who Lou was, of what he was. For Lou, you see, was afflicted with the unpleasant combination of both having power and enjoying the having of it. Eric was his employee, or so he felt. Eric had his home and his job and his life's work because Lou let him, and in exchange for these gifts Lou had very clear expectations about what he expected Eric to be, and to do.  
  
Eric, and Eric's family.  
  
Annie was all right in Lou's eyes. A good Minister's wife. But the kids, the kids were different. Eric knew that Lou had been displeased when Matt married a Jew, knew that he had been displeased when the marriage was held in a synagogue rather than the Glenoak Community Church. He knew as well that Lou didn't like Mary and that he didn't like Simon.  
  
And Eric knew, deep in his heart, that Lou didn't like him.  
  
Perhaps it was envy. Lou had spent a year in a seminary, and Eric knew from other contacts in the church that he had failed out. As well, since his son was in an institution and his wife focused entirely on that, Lou had no family to speak of, no friends other than the deacons who he controlled. What he had, and all he had, was the church, was his power in the church. During the day he seldom left his office there save to come to Eric with a complaint or a command.  
  
And Eric had found, as the years went by, that it was just easier to do what Lou told him most of the time and save your resistance for those times it really mattered. Eric was not like his father, who fought every battle and never gave in on anything. Eric's was the way of compromise, of negotiation. He chose his battles, Eric did, perhaps not wisely all the time, but he chose them nonetheless.  
  
Today the battle had been over the budget.  
  
Contributions were down in the soft economy. There were programs the church sponsored, charities that it supported, that Lou saw as luxuries and that Eric saw as necessities. They had clashed over this after Eric's last counseling session, since Lou wanted to do some maintenance on the grounds and Eric had argued that the money could be diverted into the programs and charities.  
  
Having the grass cut every week by professionals is a luxury, Lou. The building is a luxury. The ministry is in what we do, not how we look.  
  
How we look directly affects who comes to this church and how much they give, Eric. There will be no church at all if there is no money.  
  
Back and forth. Back and forth. His head and chest were aching now from the strain of it.  
  
#  
  
Eric stepped out of his car and made his way to the back door. Annie would be cooking now, something nice, something that would fill him and sustain him. She was special to him for reasons he didn't fully understand, but that he adhered to. During the early stages of menopause last year she had been nearly unlivable; he had even called a physician he knew and asked about it in confidence, had been told that Annie's case sounded extreme. He had thought, more than once, that it was too much, the way Annie was, the way the kids were all growing up, the way no one in his family seemed to respect him anymore. He was a paycheck, a house, status in the community for them, and that was all.  
  
They were different now than they had been even a few years ago. Lucy, so in love she sees nothing but Kevin. Simon, so angry and sad and alone. Ruthie, so cold sometimes. The twins, learning to speak only so slowly.  
  
Eric looked over across the street at the Shaw house, paused for a moment. Ellen, today, facing adulthood and so overwhelmed. How were the others there faring? How were Rebecca and Ed, really?  
  
Eric shrugged, made his way to his kitchen.  
  
Annie was there, cooking. She gave him a glance, and he went to her and hugged her, kissed her.  
  
"How are you?" he asked.  
  
She pulled free. "Busy," she said. "Simon's out for the evening. He said it was a date, but I think he's just going to the movies alone. So besides us it's just the girls, the twins, and Kevin for dinner."  
  
"It smells good."  
  
She smiled. It was good to see her smile.  
  
"Listen," she said then. "Lucy's supposed to be writing a paper for a class. She's got writer's block. Won't listen to me. Can you help her?"  
  
Eric nodded. "I'll give it a try."  
  
He kissed his wife again and made his way up the back stairs.  
  
#  
  
Lucy was in the room she shared with Ruthie, sitting on her bed with her back to the wall, a legal pad in front of her and a pencil in her hand. Ruthie was across the room, at her desk. Eric knocked softly at the doorframe.  
  
"Hi," he said. "I'm told there's a case of writer's block up here. Can I help?"  
  
Ruthie turned, rolled her eyes. "I sure hope so," she groaned. "I've been hearing her complain all evening. And she won't listen to a thing I tell her."  
  
Eric stepped into the room as Lucy threw a pillow at her sister. Ruthie responded by picking up her schoolbooks and moving to the door.  
  
"Good luck," she said to him as she passed.  
  
When she was gone Eric turned to Lucy. On the floor by her bed were several sheets of paper, all wadded up.  
  
"Can I help?" he asked again.  
  
Lucy groaned. "This is stupid. I shouldn't have to do it."  
  
He stepped to the foot of her bed, sat down. "What is it you have to do?"  
  
"It's my psychology class. I'm supposed to write an essay about myself, as I think I might be seen by somebody else. It's stupid."  
  
"Actually, it sounds interesting," Eric said.  
  
"Dad, it has to be two pages long. TWO pages!"  
  
He watched her for a few seconds. She slammed the pad and pencil down beside her.  
  
"You've written longer essays than that, Lucy."  
  
She made a face. "It's too hard. I don't know why I'm bothering with it anyway."  
  
"Because you want to be a Minister."  
  
"What I want to do is look at wedding dresses." She indicated a thick magazine by her bed. "That's all that matters anyway."  
  
Kevin. Good, solid Kevin. Lucy had changed overnight after she met him, had become a different person. The story of their meeting, of her outburst and detention in the Buffalo airport, was an oft-repeated one in the Camden household. Claim to be an al-Qaeda supporter and you can meet the love of your life.  
  
"How about this," Eric said. "You write the essay, and then look at wedding dresses. I'll even look at them with you."  
  
Lucy groaned again. "But Dad, it's TWO pages. And there isn't anything interesting about me to say anyway, except that I'm Kevin's fiancée."  
  
Eric shrugged. "I don't know about that. You seemed pretty interesting to me even before you met him. What about your work with Habitat For Humanity? Your work at the church? How you can fix a car? The time you helped bring out that recluse on Halloween?"  
  
"But Dad, I'm a woman now. I'm going to get married. You're going to marry me to Kevin."  
  
Eric nodded. "And I'm looking forward to it. But I saw you write ten page papers in high school. Let's see if we can't come up with two pages tonight."  
  
#  
  
In the end, Lucy managed a page and three quarters. It would be enough, she assured him, since she was going to use a big font and wide margins anyway when she typed it into the computer at school. Eric was tired by then and so gave in.  
  
And it amazed him, as it amazes your humble narrator, just how many different styles of wedding dresses there are. 


	41. Teen Scene

Teen Scene  
* * *  
  
Ellen was still quiet when Edward brought her in for her third appointment. Eric had set up her chair opposite his desk and she settled into it wordlessly, her hands laid neatly on her lap and her gaze down. After Edward had left Eric sat down behind his desk and looked at her.  
  
"Good afternoon, Ellen. How are you feeling today?"  
  
Her shoulders tensed, just a bit.  
  
"Okay," she answered softly.  
  
"Is there anything you'd like to talk about today?"  
  
She shook her head.  
  
Eric thought suddenly about depression. Fortunately he had dealt with the subject of teen depression before. Teen depression was a serious thing, often unnoticed, often leading to more serious problems, even suicide. He himself had talked a boy off a roof once.  
  
Of course, there the problem had been clear: single mother, trying to work and raise a child. Families needed two parents: a mother and a father. Kids without them were lost.  
  
But Ellen had a mother and a father. Her mother even stayed at home to raise the Shaw kids, to give them the attention they needed, to keep them from getting into trouble. They were lucky as few kids today were. He decided to try this approach.  
  
"Tell me, Ellen, how are things in your house? Are you getting along?"  
  
She looked up at him, her head barely moving as she did. And she nodded.  
  
"How about your brothers and sisters? What can you tell me about them?"  
  
Her gaze remained, telling nothing, but there. He had her attention, at least.  
  
"Samantha loves me," she said.  
  
"What about the others?"  
  
Ellen shrugged.  
  
Eric nodded and leaned back in his chair. "You know, Ellen," he said, "I have some insight into life in a big family. I've got seven kids, just like your parents do. I've talked to my kids, and they've told me it isn't easy sometimes. You can get lost in the shuffle, feel left out. But it's nobody's fault; sometimes parents with a lot of kids get busy, and the kids feel they need to do things to get their parents' attention, even bad things. It's perfectly natural. Fortunately, good parents never lose sight of their kids. They get them help if they need it."  
  
"Eight," Ellen said.  
  
Eric paused. "I'm sorry?"  
  
"We have eight."  
  
Eric did a mental count, came up with seven. Five at home, two sons grown. He shrugged it off.  
  
"The point is, Ellen, that your parents love you. I can see it in them. What I want to do is help you with your feelings, so that this love doesn't get tangled up in other things."  
  
Ellen shook her head. "They can't love me," she said.  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"I'm bad."  
  
Self-hate. It was a common enough teen problem, manifesting itself in various ways. What was that boy's name, Lucy's friend? He had even tried suicide because he hated himself. Fortunately Eric had dealt with this teen problem before. He wondered suddenly if Ellen was cutting herself; that was another teen problem he had faced with a different one of Lucy's friends. Fortunately he had dealt with that teen problem too.  
  
"Why do you say that, Ellen?" he asked.  
  
She shrugged. "I'm dirty. I'm bad. God hates me. Everyone hates me. Except Samantha."  
  
This was serious. Fortunately Eric had dealt with this sort of teen angst before. There had been that poor girl who was pregnant, who had stolen Matt's car. Or was it the other pregnant girl that Simon had met on the bus? Or maybe she hadn't been pregnant but had been one of Mary's basketball friends who had taken those drugs to enhance her performance. Eric wasn't sure quite exactly, but it had been one of them. Or maybe a different one; it was all rather confusing, actually.  
  
"Do you think I hate you, Ellen?" he asked.  
  
She shrugged again.  
  
"Well, let me assure you that I do not. And let me say again that you can tell me anything, and I won't repeat it to anyone. All right?"  
  
She nodded and her gaze fell again.  
  
Eric sighed, moved forward and rested his hands on his desk. He was becoming a bit frustrated, since by now his clients had almost always opened up to him and were busy telling him all their problems so he could give them just the right advice to solve them. These appointments only lasted about an hour, after all.  
  
Clearly this indirect approach wasn't working. Fortunately he had dealt with stubborn teen problems before.  
  
"You know, Ellen, your parents are concerned about you."  
  
She didn't move. Eric found himself filling the air with more words.  
  
"That's why they brought you to me. There are a lot of difficult feelings that teenagers go through these days. They hope I can help you with some of these difficult feelings you've been having, and maybe you'll feel better once you've been able to talk to me about them."  
  
Nothing. Eric glanced at the clock on his desk. Somewhere, far in the back of his mind, he thought he remembered something a teacher in seminary had once told him about counseling. But it wasn't clear just now.  
  
"Your family loves you, Ellen," Eric said then. "In all the world there is nothing greater than the love of family. Your parents love you very much."  
  
This prompted a response. "No they don't," she said.  
  
Finally. Eric relaxed a bit. It was a common problem that teenagers didn't feel loved; fortunately he had dealt with this teen problem before, with some friend of Lucy's, maybe.  
  
"Why do you say that, Ellen? Because you were punished?"  
  
She winced a bit as he spoke, her shoulders tensing again, her arms drawing in tight against her sides. When she didn't answer Eric went on.  
  
"You know, Ellen, it may be hard to believe, but it is just as hard for a parent to punish a child as it is to be punished. But they don't do it because they don't love you; they do it because they do love you. They want you to grow up to be strong and healthy. Those things you were looking at were not good for you, and your mother and father wanted to help you only look at good things."  
  
Light, life, there suddenly. He saw it. She was looking at him hard now, perhaps even in anger. He glanced at his clock again.  
  
Still time. Thirty-five minutes.  
  
"Why was it not good?" she asked.  
  
Eric cleared his throat, felt his chest tighten a bit. This was a difficult subject, one he preferred to avoid, one that was Edward and Rebecca's responsibility to address.  
  
"Well," he said, "it's natural that you would be curious, of course. But adult relations are not something you should be wanting to do, not until you're married. And showing women like that ... it's degrading to them. It encourages men to think of them as objects."  
  
"Showing women like what?"  
  
He reached up, pulled his tie loose, unbuttoned his collar. It was hot in here, all of a sudden. He coughed, clearing his throat again.  
  
"Well," he said, "naked."  
  
"What are you talking about?"  
  
Eric coughed again. He was feeling faint all of a sudden, and he inhaled deeply to try and clear his head. He glanced down at the sheet of paper in front of him and blinked, for the letters and words there were suddenly no longer clear. Then he looked back at the girl in front of him.  
  
"Ellen," he said, his voice trying to become firm, "you were caught with pornography."  
  
She nodded, slowly.  
  
"And pornography has naked women in it. Sometimes men too."  
  
He watched her and he blinked again. There was something wrong with his eyes right now and it was hard to make out the expression on her face.  
  
"Teen Scene doesn't have naked people in it, Reverend Camden."  
  
He tried to draw in a deep breath again. "What?"  
  
"Teen Scene," she said again.  
  
Those words; he knew those words. Teen Scene. A magazine, color pictures on the cover, interviews with heartthrobs inside. Fashion tips for girls. Lucy had read it a lot when she was younger, before she had graduated to bridal magazines.  
  
"Teen Scene?" he croaked.  
  
Ellen nodded. He could see her nod, just.  
  
She had been looking at pornography. That's what they had told him. Pornography and an anti-Christian book. But Teen Scene wasn't pornographic. It was childish, maybe, but written for the young. And there were some good articles in there; one on menarche Eric himself had read with particular interest.  
  
He blinked, his vision becoming momentarily clear. Ellen was watching him, watching him closely now, and the tightness in his chest began to grow as he saw in her face that she was not lying, that this was no attempt to hide anything. She had been caught looking at a magazine intended for teen girls, a magazine he had personally approved of for his own daughters, and she had been punished for it. For that.  
  
And the word came then, to Eric Camden.  
  
Wrong. This is wrong. This is all wrong.  
  
And another word too.  
  
Heart.  
  
"Are you all right, Reverend Camden?" he heard Ellen ask.  
  
He coughed, hard now, deep and hard, his hands shaking, trembling as a million and a million tiny needles shot through them. He rose, the effort of it coming as a surprise, bracing himself against his desk. And then, suddenly, with force enough to stagger him, a bolt of pain shot through Eric Camden's left chest, deep and abiding and explosive. He tried to cry out, the world spinning now, but heard only a desperate gasp as the floor came up to meet his falling body. 


	42. Hands Unlike Her Sister

Hands Unlike Her Sister  
* * *  
  
He saw.  
  
Let us see what he saw, before we leave Eric Camden.  
  
He saw, as though from very far away, himself. This was peculiar, because he faced no mirror, no painting, no photograph. But it was him, there, lying there on the floor of his office, just lying there, unmoving. He was surprised at how pale he looked, at how he was not, reflecting now, the man he had once thought he was.  
  
There was a girl in the office with him and he saw her too. A pretty girl in a modest floral dress, and she was moving now, her high voice calling out to him. This too seemed very far away and he wondered if he should answer her.  
  
Or not.  
  
He saw.  
  
She moved to him, beside him, her hand touching him, and then she moved to his desk, grabbing his phone and jabbing three times at the buttons there. She was loud as she spoke into the receiver, her voice trembling with fear. He knew some of the words she used, recognized them as the name of the church where he was a Minister. And he could hear the person on the other side, too, this person's voice calm, telling the girl to stay on the line.  
  
But she had dropped the phone, leaving it to dangle off the edge of the desk, leaving the other person's agitated voice to cry out for her.  
  
Eric saw. He saw that the girl was over him now. Her name was Ellen Shaw and he knew that she had been wronged, wronged deeply, not so long ago.  
  
Know this now, gentle reader. Eric knew. And as his body lay there, on the floor of his office, Ellen Shaw had left the phone, had left the 911 operator, and had moved back to him. There was a thing she knew only barely, only from a few passing images or words whose origins she could not remember, but it was a thing that she had heard that you should do when something like this happened, a thing to try. And so it was that she put one hand atop the other, joining the hands that she had long wished were more delicate like those of her lovely sister, and began shoving hard against the chest of Eric Camden.  
  
A rib popped, signaling a break, but Ellen only winced at the sound. She did not stop.  
  
She did not stop.  
  
She did not stop.  
  
She did not stop.  
  
#  
  
Paramedics then. Two of them. One pushing her aside, ripping open Eric's shirt, cutting open the t-shirt beneath. Ellen stumbling back to sit on the floor, watching now as they worked, as the one who had pushed her aside began pressing his own hands against the Minister's chest, professional, rhythmic.  
  
Machines, beeping. One that went Ping!  
  
"I've got no pulse."  
  
Paddles, gel smeared. Pressed against the chest.  
  
"Clear."  
  
A jolt. The body jumped.  
  
"Again."  
  
"Clear."  
  
Jolt.  
  
Third time.  
  
"Clear."  
  
Jolt.  
  
Beep. Beep. Beep.  
  
Life. 


	43. Nice Nurse

Nice Nurse  
* * *  
  
They brought her in with him, sitting in the back of the ambulance as it raced the three blocks from the Glenoak Community Church to the Glenoak Memorial Hospital, sirens howling and lights blazing. She had said nothing as the paramedics worked, as the stretcher was brought into the office, as Lou appeared at the door, wondering what was going on, as the paramedics explained tersely that they had no time to explain.  
  
But they had noticed Ellen, and one of the ambulance crew crouched beside her and spoke softly.  
  
"Miss, are you all right?"  
  
She didn't say anything, only watched as they wheeled the stretcher out. The man put his arm around her, guided her up and out the door, saying nothing to Lou, who still stood there. When they got her in the back of the ambulance the man laid a blanket over her shoulders, for she had begun to shiver uncontrollably.  
  
At the hospital they let her keep the blanket and guided her into the waiting room, where a kindly, heavyset nurse brought her some hot chocolate and checked her pulse and blood pressure. Ellen accepted the former and submitted to the latter, and when the nurse was satisfied that she was in good physical health, she spoke to her a bit.  
  
"The Reverend. Is he your father?" the nurse asked.  
  
Ellen shook her head.  
  
"Is there someone we can call for you?"  
  
This brought no response. The nurse looked up and saw that one of the paramedics was standing at the entrance to the waiting room. She patted Ellen's knee affectionately and then rose and went to him.  
  
"How is she?" the paramedic asked.  
  
"Mild shock, nothing serious. Do you know who she is?"  
  
The paramedic shook his head. "No ID on her?"  
  
"Nothing."  
  
The paramedic sighed, looking again at the girl. "She saved his life, you know," he said. "If he makes it, she'll be the reason."  
  
The nurse nodded. "I'll tell her," she said. "Maybe it'll help."  
  
#  
  
Edward came in to the church short while later. He had been delayed getting back and had just missed the departure of the ambulance, and Lou was nearly incoherent when Edward found him, just sitting in his office and staring at his phone. It took a few minutes to get him to talk at all.  
  
"Where is my daughter?"  
  
"Who?"  
  
"My daughter. She was in a counseling session with Reverend Camden. Where is she?"  
  
"Sitting on the floor?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"What am I going to do?"  
  
"Where is my daughter?"  
  
"I didn't even hear it. I was just sitting in my office and then there was a siren."  
  
"A siren? What?"  
  
"I should have heard it, I suppose." Lou indicated a set of headphones on his desk. "But I had some music playing. Music helps me work. But I heard the siren."  
  
Edward had moved then, around the man's desk, had gripped him by his lapels and dragged him to his feet.  
  
"WHERE IS MY DAUGHTER?"  
  
"Was that her? They wouldn't tell me. They should tell me. I'm in charge here, you know. Eric works for me."  
  
Edward pulled the man close, growled deeply.  
  
"Then he will be working for a dead man if you don't tell me where she is."  
  
Lou paled. "I don't know. They took her with them, with him. They wouldn't tell me where they were going. Oh, God, what am I going to do?"  
  
This went on for a while. Finally Lou babbled something about an ambulance and Eric being taken away somewhere, and Edward pieced the rest of it together. He shoved Lou back into his chair and made for the door, then raced out of the lot and two blocks the wrong way in panic.  
  
And for the first time in years, Edward Shaw let loose with a rich stream of obscenities, the details of which I will spare your tender ears.  
  
In time, he found the hospital.  
  
#  
  
She saw him come in, when he did, but let us consider the moments before this once again, for they merit our consideration in a story such as this. The blanket was warm around her, and the sweet taste of the hot chocolate still in her mouth. She remembered everything, but it was hard to speak and easier not to, and she wondered if the nice nurse who had sat with her and checked her could understand her eyes when she tried to say thank you through them.  
  
Nice Nurse. Heavy, with jet black skin and thick, smiling lips. Nice Nurse.  
  
Nice Nurse had asked her some things, and when she could answer them with a nod or the shake of her head, Ellen had done so. That should be enough, had to be enough.  
  
Nice Nurse had come and gone then, once just to the door, where she had talked some with the paramedic, the young man who had pushed her aside to get to Reverend Camden, and when he had gone, Nice Nurse had come back to her and smiled at her and told her that she had done a good thing, a fine thing, that she had saved the Reverend and that everyone here was very proud of her.  
  
And Ellen had tried to smile, because that seemed to be what Nice Nurse wanted, and Ellen wanted to make Nice Nurse happy.  
  
Some time had passed then.  
  
Ellen remembered, as she sat. She remembered it being easier to talk, easier to smile. This seemed a long time ago, though. She remembered when these things had felt good, when a lot of things had felt good. She wondered sometimes if there would ever be good feelings again.  
  
She thought on things as well, Ellen did. Often and deeply she thought. This was not always easy, but still it came. Her thoughts were often troubled, were often jumbles of memories, some crisp and clear, others muddled. There had been the day, a good day as days went, and then the evening, and Dad at the foot of the stairs, holding her things, holding the things that were her lifeblood, that were her hope, that were her maybe.  
  
Crisp. Clear.  
  
The memories of it.  
  
It was not clear what part of the punishment was the worst. Perhaps it was his anger, his harsh words. Whore. Whore is a harsh word, an angry word. Perhaps it was the humiliation and pain of the belt on her bare skin, of the sting of it, the sound of it.  
  
But the anger had been for a few moments only. After his first outburst she had not sensed anger in her father, but only sadness, disappointment. The belt had taken longer, but in truth probably seeming longer than it actually had been. What had come before, the hour or more of sitting on her parents' bed, telling them the intimate details of what she felt, telling them her sin, and knowing that the belt would come in time, that had been harder. And then the belt had come, in humiliation and pain, and then they had told her to pray, to tell God she was bad, and after many minutes of this there had been the belt again, longer now and harsher.  
  
But these were not the worst of it, were not the things that had robbed Ellen of her smile, of her voice, of her life. It was the other time, the other hours, the days and weeks, the new rules and then the prayers.  
  
The prayers they said would save her.  
  
You have sinned, Ellen. You have sinned badly and you must confess all to God, to Christ. You must confess everything, everything, must purge yourself through your confession. You must pray until the feelings of lust, the feelings of sin, are gone.  
  
And she, afraid of them and of God, had prayed.  
  
This may seem odd. But, gentle reader, we must understand that Ellen Shaw was a very religious girl. God was close to her. This was in part because of her upbringing; Edward and Rebecca had stamped faith very deeply on their children. But more than this it was because Ellen saw God. She saw God everywhere. God was in the beauty of the sky, of a sunset, of a flower in spring. God was the vastness of the universe and God was in the faces of her siblings when they smiled. God was in the fading life of the man she had saved. Neither you nor I nor anyone could shake her faith in God.  
  
But you could turn it against her.  
  
For if there was even a hint, a suspicion, that God hated her, Ellen would be afraid. It was not hellfire that frightened her, but rather the fear of separation, the fear that she did not deserve the beauty of the universe, did not deserve to bask in the sunlight. And to assuage this fear she would pay any price, even sacrificing her soul to the angry deity of her parents.  
  
Which she had done now.  
  
There had been the belt, that final, harsh series, and then prayer. Every hour, every day.  
  
Forgive me, God. Please. I pray and I pray but you are silent to me now.  
  
And in time, it became easier just not to be Ellen anymore.  
  
#  
  
He saw her as she saw him, and he came to her. She didn't move as he did, as suddenly she felt his arms around her, holding her close as he trembled. She recognized the fear in his trembling and felt a pang of sadness for him.  
  
His voice.  
  
"Oh, God. Ellen, are you all right?"  
  
She nodded.  
  
Nice Nurse was there, walking up behind him. Her father rose and turned to Nice Nurse. They talked some and Ellen sipped the last of her hot chocolate, and then her father turned back to her. He looked at her and he seemed unsure what to say. Ellen didn't move. She wanted to ask for more hot chocolate. Then her father spoke at last, nodding.  
  
"Good," he said. "You did good, Ellen. Let's get you home now."  
  
Nice Nurse looked down at her.  
  
"Ellen. That's a pretty name," she said. "This is your father?"  
  
Ellen nodded.  
  
"That's good. Listen, Ellen. There are some forms he needs to fill out for us, some other things too. Why don't you just sit here while we do. Would you like some more cocoa?"  
  
Ellen nodded again. She managed to speak then, just a whisper.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
Nice Nurse beamed, went off for another cup. Her father sat down beside her, sighed heavily. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it again as he seemed unable to find the words he sought. Nice Nurse returned then, handed her a steaming cup, told her to let it cool a bit.  
  
Then Nice Nurse and her father stepped out of the waiting room and over to the reception desk.  
  
Ellen hoped they would hurry. She was very tired. 


	44. Come With Me, Please

Come With Me, Please  
* * *  
  
It's the call you never want to get. It can come at any time, day or night, rain or shine. And when you get it, when it disturbs your life, it will always seem like it came to late, and it will always bring forth those regrets, those things you meant to say, to do.  
  
But the regrets are later.  
  
First comes panic.  
  
The call.  
  
Annie didn't get the phone right away. She was feeding the twins, talking with them in baby talk and watching them stare at her in wonder as she did. They were so cute, Sam and David were, and there was a very real part of Annie that never wanted them to grow up, to get any bigger than they were now. This was because she knew that when kids grow up they stop being what you want them to be, stop doing what you tell them to do, and there was a part of Annie that was afraid of this.  
  
Everything was supposed to stay the same. The kids were all supposed to stay here, in this house, with her and Eric. She was always supposed to be a Minister's wife, taking care of her kids and her husband. She wasn't supposed to get menopausal, wasn't supposed to have to take those pills every day.  
  
Life was supposed to be steady, predictable, consistent.  
  
By the third ring she was there, cradling the phone against her shoulder while she returned to the twins.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
Words.  
  
Annie, then, catching herself against the counter as her knees went suddenly weak, saying something into the phone, then setting it down and gathering the twins and hurrying across the street to deposit them with Rebecca, who saw the look on her face and didn't ask questions, just put a hand against the shoulder of each twin and drew them into her house, telling Annie to go go go.  
  
Which Annie did, her little electric car blazing its way through the busy streets of Glenoak.  
  
#  
  
Slowly the news spread. Ruthie, coming home from school and wondering why the house was empty, taking the opportunity to do some digging through the drawers in Lucy's dresser, wandering after this across the street to the Shaw house, where Rebecca told her what she knew and got her something to eat. Simon and Lucy then, each arriving within a few minutes of each other, wondering as well about the empty house until Rebecca noted Lucy's car and came over to get them.  
  
Edward was back by this time, Ellen with him. She was saying her hourly prayer in the living room when Rebecca appeared with Lucy and Simon.  
  
"I'm bad, God. Please save me. Please save Reverend Camden. Please protect him from Satan. Please forgive me for my sins ...."  
  
The twins and Ruthie watched this curiously. The Shaws and Lucy hardly noticed. Simon saw Ellen, felt a sudden chill, then saw Samantha watching him, her eyes occasionally going to her father, and the chill grew.  
  
"What happened?" Lucy was demanding.  
  
"It was a heart attack," Edward said. "Your mother is at the hospital now. We'll take you there."  
  
Lucy was trembling suddenly, and Rebecca took her and held her close. Edward turned to Franklin.  
  
"Son, you're in charge here. When Ellen has finished her prayers, have Samantha put her to bed. We may not be back in time for dinner, so have Samantha make something."  
  
"Yes, Sir," Franklin said.  
  
And then they were gone.  
  
#  
  
Hours. Evening. The Camdens gathered, waiting. Kevin appeared, held Lucy close. From time to time she would start to cry, and when she did his embrace would stiffen and he would mumble reassurances into her ear, and she would quiet. Simon just sat, staring out at nothing, while Ruthie entertained herself with the twins, who kept babbling in broken phrases of old gospel tunes.  
  
Annie sat too, Rebecca beside her. But Rebecca's presence wasn't entirely clear, not always. It was good; Annie knew that. Good and faithful and there. A good neighbor and a good friend. But just now there wasn't energy for more, not in Annie. She was only just aware when Hank and Julie appeared, when Hank went over to the nurse's station and demanded to know Eric's status, when the heavyset nurse there merely raised an eyebrow at him and told him to sit down, that when they had something to tell them they would. So he came back, fuming and muttering something about how he knew people in this hospital, important people, by God, and the damn nurses should know better than to treat him like that.  
  
In time, later now, it occurred to Annie that she should call Matt, and Edward produced his cell phone for that purpose. It was a short conversation with a lot of "Oh, my God"s on the other end, and finally with Sarah taking the line and telling Annie that they would be out on the next flight for Glenoak, that she would call her parents and have them meet the flight, that Annie shouldn't worry.  
  
Of course, Matt was babbling something incoherent in the background, so Annie did worry.  
  
Mary? We don't have a number for Mary.  
  
Robbie does.  
  
Where's Robbie?  
  
There were others to remember, too, and it wasn't long before Mary was lost in the shuffle. The Colonel and Ruth, of course; but Julie had taken care of that. The Hamiltons, Detective Michaels, Mrs. Bink. Where was Mrs. Bink?  
  
Why are we calling Mrs. Bink?  
  
I don't know.  
  
This was interrupted by the doctor, coming out.  
  
Annie rose.  
  
"He's stable," the doctor said to her. "But right now his condition is critical. The next twelve hours are crucial; if he can make it past that point, he's got a good chance."  
  
"Oh, God," Annie heard herself say. "What can we do?"  
  
"You're welcome to stay if you like," the doctor said. "I'll have the hospital chaplain get you anything you might need."  
  
#  
  
The doctor left then, excusing herself to other matters and other lives. Gently Edward suggested that the twins and Ruthie might be better off spending the night at the Shaw house, since they would need their sleep, and Annie agreed to this. They didn't resist as he took them, and with their departure a quiet settled over the waiting room.  
  
Someone there. Annie looked up.  
  
Lou.  
  
"Annie," he said, "How is he?"  
  
She couldn't say the word. Lou nodded, sat down beside her. Rebecca watched him. He looked tired, his tie loose, hanging limply, his shirt rumpled. He sighed.  
  
"How did this happen?" he asked no one in particular.  
  
No one in particular answered.  
  
It was silent for a time. Hank and Julie had gone to get something to eat, and Kevin was still holding Lucy, his eyes occasionally roaming over to the nurse's station, where a new shift had just come in, this group younger and more slender than the last. Simon, across the way, thumbed absent-mindedly through a magazine.  
  
"Annie," Lou said then. His voice was soft. "I'm worried."  
  
She looked at him. He paused and went on.  
  
"We need someone to lead Sunday's service. This was so sudden; no warning. What are we going to do? Annie, this is serious ...."  
  
Annie didn't move. She only watched him, her face going slowly pale.  
  
"I know this is a hard time," Lou said. "But we have to figure out what we're going to do. If Eric can't lead the service, what are we going to do?"  
  
Seconds. One, another, another. Annie simply stared, and then, quiet in her throat, a whimper came. Lou watched her intently.  
  
And then Rebecca rose. She touched Lou's shoulder, spoke softly.  
  
"Come with me, please," she said.  
  
He looked from Annie to Rebecca, gave Annie a reassuring nod and stood. Rebecca led the way out of the waiting room, Lou trailing behind her.  
  
#  
  
There is some dispute about what happened then. Accounts of this sort of thing will vary, people hearing some part of it and supplying the rest themselves. But it is known that Rebecca led Lou outside the front doors of the Glenoak Memorial Hospital, and that for some time she was out there with him. On that our sources, being patients, visitors and medical personnel, all agree.  
  
Beyond this, we know at least some of the vocabulary that Rebecca used in the ensuing conversation:  
  
Insensitive.  
  
Callous.  
  
Selfish.  
  
Idiot.  
  
Stupid.  
  
Unchristian.  
  
Offensive.  
  
Stupid again (this word, by all our accounts, came up many times).  
  
Rude.  
  
Shameful.  
  
Disgusting.  
  
We know that after this, Lou left the hospital, his face ashen white. And we know also that as Rebecca Shaw returned to the waiting room and her friend, the hospital security guard gave her a very wide berth. 


	45. The King

The King  
* * *  
  
Unlike Mr. Marley, the late associate of Mr. Scrooge, Eric Camden was not quite dead. This must be fully understood and accepted by the reader if the following account is to have any meaning at all, if it is to make any sense whatsoever.  
  
Eric Camden was not dead. He did not want to go on the cart, he thought he might go for a walk, and he felt happy, oh, so happy.  
  
Not dead.  
  
But similarly, it must be noted that Eric Camden was not certain that he was alive, either. This is because being alive means certain important things, and just at this moment Eric didn't have those things, things like the sense of your bottom itching and needing to be scratched, or the overwhelming desire for chocolate ice cream that is such a central part of life for your humble narrator. Eric did not have these, and so while he was not dead, his awareness of being alive was gone as well.  
  
And so it was.  
  
#  
  
He remembered, as the dead and nearly dead often do, what he had been doing just prior to what he was doing now. There had been that girl, that teen girl, whose problem he fortunately thought he had dealt with before, but which it turned out he hadn't. And she had been there, over him, shoving hard at his chest, and he had thought as she did that it was awfully nice of her to do that, since there was a part of him that realized that this was a heart attack because he had had one once before.  
  
And that was pretty much it. Ever since then he had simply been here, in this nonplace where he was, and so after a while Eric decided that maybe he was dead after all. He may be forgiven for this mistake on account of his being nearly dead, which fortunately your humble narrator is not, allowing me to make blanket statements about Eric Camden that he himself was not qualified to make.  
  
Being dead, of course, meant certain things to Eric. This was on account of his particular theology, the details of which I will not burden you with here. Suffice it to say that being dead meant that he was going to meet someone important, someone who had affected the lives of countless millions, and who was worshipped by them.  
  
You know who I mean.  
  
He came then.  
  
Yes, rhinestones sparkling, black hair slicked back, those unforgettable sideburns. And his hips, too, those unforgettable hips that had shocked a generation of adults and sent girls screaming with excitement, those hips came doing their magic as Eric watched. Music played in the background and then he was there.  
  
"Thank you," said the King. "Thank you very much."  
  
"Wow," said Eric.  
  
The King wiggled his mesmerizing hips again.  
  
"Eric Camden?" he asked.  
  
Eric nodded.  
  
"Elvis?"  
  
"That's right." The King gave him an approving nod.  
  
Eric blinked. "Am I dead?" he asked.  
  
Elvis shrugged.  
  
"Beats me. Being dead's not as simple as folks think, you know. Some folks are dead for years and they don't even know it. Do you think you're dead?"  
  
Eric thought this through. "Well, I know that you are, so I guess I am too."  
  
"Maybe."  
  
This troubled Eric. "But if I'm dead," he said, "shouldn't Jesus be here?"  
  
Elvis shook his head. "Sorry. Jesus can't make it."  
  
"The son of God? The messiah? He can't make it?"  
  
"Nope."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"He's in mourning. I'm covering for him."  
  
Eric crossed his arms. This was all sounding too ridiculous. "What do you mean, 'mourning'?"  
  
Elvis shrugged. "Him, Muhammad, Moses, a couple of the others. They have a place down by the river. Sometimes they send out for pizza, but that's about all anyone ever sees of them."  
  
"What are they mourning?" Eric asked.  
  
"Why, the evil done in their names, of course. There's a lot of it. Aren't you a Minister?"  
  
Eric nodded.  
  
"Well, son, then all that ought to be pretty obvious. Anyway, I count myself lucky. So far no one has started any crusades or jihads or holy wars over me. You ever been to Graceland?"  
  
"No."  
  
"You ought to go. It's a lot of fun, especially the jungle room."  
  
Eric thought about this for a while. He had always wanted to go to Graceland, but there had always been something else, something that got in the way, that stopped him. It seemed like there were a lot of things like that, now that he thought about it.  
  
I always wanted to write an erotic thriller.  
  
I always wanted to be in a rock band.  
  
I always wanted ....  
  
"Oh, for God's sake," the King said, "are you feeling sorry for yourself?"  
  
"You can read my mind?" Eric asked.  
  
"Of course I can read your mind. I'm dead, and I'm the King. What did you expect?"  
  
"Well, what are you doing here?"  
  
"Don't you know? I thought you said you were a Minister."  
  
"I am. But I don't understand."  
  
Elvis grinned. "They never do. All right. I'm here to show you the light and the truth and the way, and maybe sing a little song. That last part's optional."  
  
"I thought the light and the truth and the way was Jesus."  
  
"Nope. People thinking like that are why the poor guy has to send out for pizza."  
  
"Then what is the light and the truth and the way?"  
  
"You sure you're a Minister?"  
  
Eric nodded.  
  
Elvis sighed. "Look, it's really simple. The light and the truth and the way is you, Eric. You and everybody else, every man, woman and child. It's doing your best and letting other people do their best. You love yourself and you love other people, and you try to make the world a little better when you leave it than it was when you arrived. How you do that, well, that's tougher. But nothing beats a good dose of common sense and love. That's what Jesus kept telling people, but they wouldn't listen. Wasted all that time writing down what he said instead of acting on it, and by the time they were finished, they had all the words but they'd lost the meaning. And the more they wrote about it and talked about it and turned it into some deep philosophy or theology, the further away they got from what he really wanted. They all wanted someone else to give them the answers."  
  
"That's it?"  
  
"Basically. But it's tougher than it looks; the world's complicated and like I said, not every answer is in a book. You have to remember to love, and make up the rest as you go along. It's easy to get sidetracked, and you're going to make mistakes. Sometimes big ones. The worst thing is when you think you've got it all figured out, and when you think that there's only one right way to do it. That's when you get stuck. And I think you've been stuck, Eric."  
  
"I have?"  
  
"Sure. You've been trying your best, but you don't listen to your heart; pardon the pun. What's your heart tell you, Eric?"  
  
Eric thought for a while. Elvis sang "Hound Dog".  
  
The answer came, of course, in time. Eric looked at Elvis, and Elvis read his mind and spoke again.  
  
"You got it," the King said. "Good work. Makin' it happen, well, that's going to be tougher."  
  
"Can I try?"  
  
Elvis nodded.  
  
"You're going to pull through, this time. Thank that Ellen girl when you get a chance; she's got a good soul. But it's going to be hard, Eric. You're going to be laid up for a long time, and there's a lot of bad trouble coming. But you do your best, you hear?"  
  
Eric smiled. "I will."  
  
Elvis gave him a wink and began walking away, his hips working miracles as he did. He sang a little as he walked.  
  
#  
  
"Don't wanna be no messiah, messiahs got it rough,  
  
"Don't wanna be no prophet, 'cause prophets ain't the kind folks love enough ...."  
  
#  
  
Then the King was gone. A loud voice boomed out:  
  
"ELVIS HAS LEFT THE BUILDING."  
  
And the twelve hours passed, and Eric Camden still lived. 


	46. Charity

Charity  
  
* * *  
  
Around the town of Glenoak, in that vague and nebulous universe that included New York, Florida, and Afghanistan, events moved forward with little regard to the momentous happenings in the lives of our two families. But as what had been a long, cold winter neared its end, the outside world did move, things did occur. The President of the United States ordered more and more soldiers like Joshua Shaw to the Middle East, and war there loomed ever larger on the horizon. Americans watched as this occurred, encouraged by noble displays of patriotism that included the official vilification of all things French, and some wondered how the remarkable unity of their country that they had seen after September 11, 2001 could have disappeared so quickly, as those who at all questioned the upcoming war were labeled anti-American despite long histories of taxpaying, jury duty, civic service, and honorable duty in previous wars, while those who supported it, however reluctantly, or even those who did not oppose it in the proper way, were decried as evil warmongers and enemies of all things good and true.  
  
They were strange times, times that would be long remembered. An old and close friend of your humble narrator, lacking the good fortune to have an Ellen Shaw with him, was lost to a failing heart. He was just past forty, and his passing was grieved. At the nation's premiere university a controversy erupted over the symbolism of a giant snow phallus erected as a joke by several undergraduates, and a radical feminist finally equated this normal part of the anatomy of half the human race to the Nazi swastika. A girl kidnapped by a psychopathic polygamist in Utah was recovered in good health thanks to the television show America's Most Wanted, and with this piece of news the nation and the world could, for a brief time at least, believe in miracles.  
  
Miracles.  
  
What, gentle reader, constitutes a miracle?  
  
Perhaps it is the heart, both in the sense of the heart of Eric Camden or in the sense of the heart of Ellen Shaw. In the former it is a muscle, a pump, a miracle of reliability that gives us life. For despite its failings, Eric's heart had worked well enough and long enough to give him what was in many ways already a full life, filled with a richness that many would envy.  
  
And of the latter?  
  
This sense was less visible now, as days passed and life, for the Camdens, crept along. We must say this for the Shaws: while Edward and Rebecca would probably not have raised a finger to help a Muslim family, or a Hindu one, or one comprised of Atheists or Gays, they did mobilize admirably for their Christian neighbors. Rebecca, already a brilliant cook, became twice that, and the Camden children never lacked for food while Annie spent her days at her husband's side in the intensive care unit of Glenoak Memorial Hospital, where he drifted in and out of consciousness. Sam and David were entertained by Barry, and Ruthie by Virginia, which provided them with a sense of security, for the little boys had little understanding of what had befallen their father and Ruthie seemed curiously unaffected. Matt, who had rushed to Glenoak with his wife, was also comforted by the strong presence of Edward, who took it upon himself to manage the Camden household with the same firm authority he exercised in his own. This firm authority appealed to Matt, who had always seen himself as the leader and protector of his younger siblings, and he found himself admiring Edward Shaw more and more as the days passed.  
  
But these noble deeds are not the central interest to our story. Rather, we must note instead the other children, Lucy and Simon, and Samantha and Franklin. For just as Edward had decreed that his younger children should minister to the younger Camdens, so too did he order Samantha to be with Lucy and Franklin to be with Simon. This arrangement was fine with Kevin, of course, who seemed eager to get back to work after a full day consoling his future bride.  
  
"Don't worry about a thing," Edward told him. "Samantha's a good girl. She'll take care of her. And we owe it to you, Kevin."  
  
"Thanks, Ed." Kevin turned to Samantha, gave her a curt nod. "You take care of my lady now, all right?"  
  
Samantha nodded.  
  
She watched, too. She had been watching for some time, for much of these past weeks. For Samantha remembered, you know. She remembered Kevin coming into her home, bearing the plastic bag that would condemn her sister, and she remembered watching him leave after a following visit, carrying her father's antique sword in his hands. Let us not say that Samantha Shaw was not observant, for she was.  
  
And she understood.  
  
She knew the score.  
  
Now it was time to act. 


	47. Birthing Pains

Birthing Pains  
  
* * *  
  
We return, after the above hiatus, to where we began, with two mothers. Annie was, understandably, doing far more worrying than mothering at the moment, but it may surprise the gentle reader to know that Rebecca, too, was fraught with worry.  
  
For the President of the United States had given the Dictator of Iraq 48 hours to leave office, and the machines of war were in motion.  
  
This brought, for Rebecca Shaw, a time of introspection, for despite the propaganda and the public face, it is never an easy thing for a mother to send her son to war.  
  
Joshua. How ironic that this son, of all her sons, should be preparing to fight. He had been named for the hero in the Bible, the man for whom God had made the sun stand still, the man who had purged the promised land of the Canaanites, the man who Moses had chosen to lead the Israelites where God wanted them to settle.  
  
Had that Joshua had a mother? What had she felt as the swords were drawn?  
  
Rebecca, herself named after an Israelite from the Old Testament, did not know the answer to this question, try as she might to puzzle it through. But she supposed that the Biblical Joshua's mother had been comforted by prayer and the conviction that her son was doing right, that he was doing the will of the Lord, and she imagined that the woman had prayed as her son marched at the head of the legions of God's chosen people, and that God, in his infinite wisdom, had comforted her in her prayers.  
  
And so Rebecca prayed too.  
  
He was a good boy, her Joshua was, and a fine man. He was her second born, a year older than Peter, and he was friendly, outgoing, infinitely curious. She supposed sometimes that this was why had had chosen to enlist; it was an easy way to see the world. His brother Peter, on the other hand, was more outwardly a believer, more vocal in his agreement with Edward that Christians must stand together against the evils of secular humanism, that the people out in the world who were not like us were to be feared. Rebecca knew as well that her two older sons had been rivals as boys, both for their father's attention and for reasons that ran deeper. This was something about men that Rebecca didn't understand and that she didn't try to; men clashed; it was simply their nature.  
  
Something like the President of the United States and the Dictator of Iraq.  
  
#  
  
It was late now, the end of a long day. Edward was still at the office, facing a deadline, and he had phoned to tell her that he would get something for dinner on the way home, not to bother with anything. This was good of him and a sign that he saw how hard she was working these days, feeding and mothering both their own children and all of the Camden children, none of whom seemed to be able to cook or do laundry or otherwise care for themselves. Prior to dinner she had taken something to Annie at the hospital, sitting with her as the woman ate hungrily.  
  
"Thank you, Rebecca. You have no idea how bad hospital food is."  
  
Rebecca smiled. "Oh, I do. I had eight children, all born in the hospital. How is Eric?"  
  
"Weak. God, it's hard. He keeps trying to talk, but he can't, not really. The doctors are talking about a lot of therapy, a pacemaker, probably more surgery. He'll need a bypass for certain, when he's strong enough."  
  
Rebecca nodded. "We're all praying for him," she said.  
  
#  
  
Praying.  
  
Please, God, keep my son safe. Please help Eric Camden.  
  
Please help my daughter.  
  
This last, as Rebecca finished cleaning her kitchen, came suddenly.  
  
My daughter.  
  
Ellen? Andrea?  
  
It took a moment for that name to come. Andrea. Where are you? My oldest child, my firstborn. Lost, swept away. Taken by sin.  
  
Rebecca dried her hands, stepped out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Ruthie was there, in her nightgown, standing by the door to the bathroom. Ruthie had been sleeping here a lot lately, sharing the room with Virginia, just as the two Camden twins slept now in the room with Barry. This arrangement was good for them; Simon and Lucy were old enough that they did not need adults with them, and they stayed in the Camden house; indeed Samantha often spent the night there, as she was doing tonight, comforting Lucy, who still seemed particularly shaken by what had happened to her father.  
  
Samantha. My angel.  
  
"Good evening, Mrs. Shaw," Ruthie said now.  
  
Rebecca smiled at the girl.  
  
"Good evening, Ruthie. How are you? Comfortable in Virginia's room?"  
  
Ruthie nodded. "Oh, yes, thank you. That was a lovely dinner, by the way. Thank you for that as well."  
  
Ruthie talked like someone twice or more than her age, a feature Rebecca appreciated. She touched the girl affectionately and gently on the head as the bathroom door opened and Virginia emerged. As it closed behind Ruthie Rebecca led Virginia back to her bedroom and began pulling the brush through her soft hair. Virginia spoke softly as she did.  
  
"Mom?"  
  
"Yes, dear?"  
  
"I'm scared for Joshua."  
  
Rebecca slowed her brushing imperceptibly, and tensed her hand against the sudden trembling there. No, she thought. The good Christian mother does not show this fear. She does not show this unease. Her children must always be able to depend on her.  
  
"It's going to be all right," she said now. "He's fighting on the side of God, of America. Have you prayed for him today?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"God will hear your prayers. God listens carefully to the prayers of good little girls."  
  
Virginia nodded. Rebecca finished her strokes and tied her daughter's hair back with a silk ribbon, then laid the brush aside, tucking Virginia in and kissing her goodnight. Ruthie had returned and Rebecca tucked her in as well.  
  
#  
  
Franklin was in his room, already in bed, as were Barry and the twins. Rebecca now went to the last bedroom, opened the closed door and stepped inside.  
  
Ellen was there. She knelt by her bed, her hands clasped in prayer. Her words drifted quietly to Rebecca.  
  
"Please forgive me, God. Please forgive my sins. I'm dirty and bad ...."  
  
This went on for a time and Rebecca merely watched. There was a monotone to Ellen's voice now, rather unfamiliar to Rebecca, the same words spoken again and again in the same way. This was not the way it had been before, and now, as she watched her daughter, Rebecca again thought of Andrea.  
  
She had hoped that her younger daughters had escaped the sin that had claimed their elder sibling. Andrea had been a willful child, stubborn and angry when disciplined, unwilling or resentful when told what to do. Even young there had been trouble, questions. Why do Joshua and Peter get to do things I don't? Why do boys get to do those things and I don't?  
  
It had not been pornography that had driven Andrea away; she was not like Ellen in this respect. Rather, it had been her insistence that she not have to obey her brothers, that she get to decide what she wanted. And all the punishment, the enforced prayer, all the reading of the Bible for justification and explanation, all the times Rebecca had sat with her and explained how wonderful a person she was for being a girl, how important and beautiful being a girl was, how she should revel in her femininity, had done no good, in the end.  
  
Her eighteenth birthday. Rebecca had prepared a party, had made a cake, had cooked Andrea's favorite meal. And Andrea's gift to her, her response to all of them, was to appear with a bag of her things and angry words.  
  
Goodbye.  
  
Ellen's voice still echoed in the small room. "I burn in sin, God .... Please forgive me .... I'm dirty and bad ...."  
  
Goodbye.  
  
Anger had followed the shock, directed against the door that Andrea had gone through. Anger at her betrayal of her family, of her God, of Christ. Anger that she welcomed hell. But behind that anger, and following it, was grief, was sadness, sadness compounded by the brief note they had gotten a year later, announcing Andrea's marriage to someone, someone they didn't even know.  
  
A marriage held in a courthouse, not in a church.  
  
Edward had thrown this announcement into the garbage, but Rebecca later found herself recovering it, hiding it where he would never think to look, pulling it out once in a while to gaze at it. And she knew, too, that later that night, when he had thought that she was asleep, Edward had gone into the bathroom and wept.  
  
Never again, Rebecca thought now. I will not lose another daughter like that.  
  
"I burn with wickedness .... I burn with lust .... Please forgive me, God .... I'm so sorry for my sins ...."  
  
In time Ellen's praying ended. She rose, pulled back the covers to her bed, sat down there. Rebecca moved, unacknowledged, to her side, sat beside her. She reached up, touched gently at her daughter's hair, felt its softness. She had never brushed Ellen's hair as she did Virginia's and once had done Samantha's; there was no reason for this omission save that it had never seemed right that she do so, and now Rebecca found herself wondering if maybe she should have, if maybe this little ritual would have helped Ellen see herself as a girl, becoming a woman, beautiful as a creation of God, not needing to dirty herself with sex.  
  
Ellen didn't move as Rebecca caressed her hair. Her gaze, as always these days, was down.  
  
Oh, my beautiful daughter, Rebecca thought. It's hard. I know it's hard. But you have to fight back. You have to drive the wickedness away.  
  
This Rebecca knew. Ellen's feelings were not so alien to her as you might think. There were times that she wanted Edward to take her with more passion, were ways she thought about him, and before she had known him had thought about other men, that were sinful. But she knew and had always known the dangers of such passions; much of Edward's strength as a man was the fact that he had little passion for the flesh but much more of the spirit. This calmed Rebecca, and with the responsibilities of motherhood protected her from the sins she knew she might feel otherwise. She was relieved beyond measure that Samantha and Virginia showed little interest in such things, but with Ellen the danger was very real.  
  
"Mom?" Ellen asked softly.  
  
"Yes, dear?"  
  
"Will God always hate me now?"  
  
Rebecca didn't think as she reached out and held her daughter, kissed her on the forehead.  
  
"God doesn't hate you, Ellen. God will never hate you. God only hates your sins. That's why you have to pray, because prayer brings you closer to God. By admitting your sins to God you show God that you love him and that you want him in your life."  
  
Ellen nodded. Rebecca held her close for some time.  
  
And the thoughts came of their own accord.  
  
You are going to be remade through prayer, my beautiful Ellen. Once you have cast away these dirty feelings, you are going to emerge pure and fitting for God's grace and God's kingdom. You are going to make me so proud.  
  
You are not going to be like Andrea. 


	48. Daddy's Girl

Daddy's Girl  
  
* * *  
  
Lucy Camden was, to Samantha Shaw, a question wrapped in a riddle covered by an enigma. Never before in her young life had Samantha seen someone Lucy's age act the way Lucy did. She had heard stories, of course, about how brides sometimes were as their weddings approached, how the date and the event assumed a monumental importance for them, but until now these had been only stories, and indeed, even by the standards of those stories Lucy seemed extreme.  
  
But though this fact was welcome to Samantha, this was not the oddest thing.  
  
The oddest thing was how, the more she got to know Lucy, staying with her night after night in the Camden household, the more Samantha saw evidence that Lucy had been growing more childlike, not less, with every year she aged. There were stories Lucy told her about herself, things they came to share as Lucy worried vocally and often about her father's health, things that included volunteer work, charity, an affinity for things mechanical, and most of all, a sense of self esteem.  
  
There was none of this now, as the two poured over bridal magazines for hours on end.  
  
"Aren't these gowns pretty?" Lucy asked her as they sat in Lucy's bedroom one night.  
  
Samantha feigned interest. "Oh, yes. Lovely."  
  
"Which one's your favorite?"  
  
Samantha pointed at random. "That one."  
  
Lucy nodded, stared at it for a moment.  
  
"Yeah, it's beautiful. Of course, you'd look great in anything. You're so pretty. I'll bet the boys are just beating down the door for a date with you."  
  
Samantha smiled and shrugged. "I think it would look good on you too, Lucy."  
  
"Really? It's so important. I have to look my best on my wedding day. It's the most important day of my life, you know. I'm so lucky that Kevin wants to marry me. He's got that partner of his always wanting him; she's a sex kitten, just ready to take him away from me. Don't you just hate girls like that?"  
  
"Like what?"  
  
"You know. All beautiful and chasing after men. Why can't girls see that we're supposed to wait for the men to ask us out?"  
  
Samantha shrugged. They turned to the next full page spread of gowns. Lucy ogled these for a few minutes.  
  
"So, Lucy, what kind of wedding are you going to have?" Samantha asked her.  
  
"Oh!" Lucy answered. "It's going to be beautiful! We'll use the church, of course, and my Dad --"  
  
Her voice cut off abruptly, was resumed by a sudden sob.  
  
"Oh, God, he was going to do the service. It was going to be so perfect ...."  
  
Samantha reached out, held her close.  
  
"What if he can't?" Lucy whined then. "It's always been my fantasy wedding, and he was going to perform it, and now .... Oh, why did he have to have his heart attack now? It's not fair!"  
  
Samantha still held her, let her cry for a while. Finally Lucy slowed, and Samantha handed her a tissue. Lucy blew her nose.  
  
Her own nose, in case you are wondering. This isn't the kind of story where people blow each other's noses, which would be both disgusting and very difficult to do. You can trust your humble narrator on this.  
  
"What are you going to do?" Samantha asked.  
  
Lucy sniffled. "I don't know. The wedding is set for the end of April. They have that new Minister they brought in; I guess he'll have to do it. But it isn't fair!"  
  
Samantha nodded. Her delicate fingers traced over one of the photos, a beautiful silken gown dusted with lace.  
  
"That's hard," she said. "I don't know if ...."  
  
Lucy looked at her. "If what?"  
  
"Well .... In my dream wedding, my father is always there. I couldn't get married if he didn't give me away." Samantha shrugged. "It just wouldn't feel right."  
  
Lucy began to blubber again. Again Samantha held her.  
  
"Oh, God .... What am I going to do?" Lucy moaned.  
  
"I don't know. I'm so sorry for you, Lucy. I shouldn't have said anything. I'm sorry ...."  
  
Lucy drew back, blew her nose again.  
  
"No, no .... You're my best friend, Samantha. You are. It's like I've known you for a whole week. And you're right, my dad has to be there. He has to be the one who marries me to Kevin. It's my wedding, the biggest day of my life." She stiffened, her face taking on a sudden resolve.  
  
"What are you going to do?" asked Samantha.  
  
Lucy closed the wedding magazine and stood.  
  
"I'm going to postpone my wedding," she said. "I have to. Kevin will understand."  
  
Samantha nodded, her face a picture of sympathy. Only when Lucy had gone to bed and the lights were out did she allow herself to smile knowingly. 


	49. Brothers

Brothers  
  
* * *  
  
Simon wondered sometimes if he was going to explode.  
  
Not figuratively, mind you, but literally. Some time, at some point, it was all going to be too much, and he was going to just go off -- BOOM! Pieces of Simon Camden, scattered all over the hallway at school, or in the living room, or wherever.  
  
Because no matter how hard he tried, things always just got worse.  
  
There was Morris, first of all. Off in San Francisco. That was good for Morris, Simon realized, because a guy like Morris would never be welcome in a town like Glenoak. Maybe that's why Simon had done what he did, or did not do, for Morris. Maybe he saw the angst and the loneliness and just had to do what he had done.  
  
Which was just to keep quiet and be there.  
  
It had been a tough time. He missed his friend.  
  
Then there was Claire, passing him wordlessly in the halls at school. He wanted to talk to her, to see how she was doing, but he sensed that this wouldn't be right, not just now. It had been him, after all, who had dropped her baby off at the hospital; hell, him who had delivered it.  
  
Tough time, that night had been.  
  
And now there was this; his father, in the hospital, recovering slowly from that second heart attack. Second one. Too much stress, too much of the congregation always demanding things of him, of his family doing likewise.  
  
Of his teenage son trying to become a man even as the entire world pulled at him to stay a boy, because when you are the second son of a preacher, you aren't ever supposed to be a man. That's Matt's job, the mighty, perfect Matt.  
  
Matt who had come home from med school, taking a leave of absence, to be the big brother, to take charge.  
  
He had always done that, hadn't he? Simon remembered when it had been welcome, Matt's insistence that he be a third parent. But it wasn't the same now; Matt was different. He didn't actually run the household but rather let Edward Shaw do it, and Edward Shaw scared Simon more and more every day now.  
  
This was partly the presence of Samantha in the house, always around to console Lucy. Lucy hadn't taken the heart attack well at all, and even Kevin, who always seemed in such control of things, seemed eager to leave her in the hands of the Shaw daughter.  
  
Yes, that Shaw daughter.  
  
Sometimes Simon wondered why she scared him like she did. It wasn't just that she had seduced him, wasn't just the knowledge that in the minds of her parents and his own what had happened would be seen as entirely his fault, because when sex happened to Christians it was always the boy's fault; proper Christian girls were always victims, even if it was only to their own base desires. No, there was something more to Samantha, a lot more.  
  
Christ, couldn't you just have kept your pants up?  
  
Simon wished that it was Ellen comforting Lucy instead. He actually liked Ellen. There was no threat from her, and indeed, she was really the only Shaw he could say that about. But Ellen was rarely seen. She never walked their dog anymore, and when Simon did see her, usually at dinner when they ate at the Shaws', she never said anything unless it was a prayer. There was something really wrong with her but no one ever talked about it, and Simon didn't really want to know.  
  
Because even though he liked her, he had dealt with these Shaw freaks enough already. Now he just wanted to survive the next couple of years and then get the hell out of town.  
  
But now, in the meantime, there was Samantha.  
  
Samantha. Beautiful. Radiant. Spending time with Lucy, even spending the night. And looking at him, too, with those perfect eyes, knowing that he knew what they had done, how she had touched him, how part of him saw her and wanted nothing more than to feel her touch him like that again even though he knew that she could damn him with a single word. It was torture, it was, that unique kind of torture that only a teenage boy can feel. He avoided her while trying to make it seem that he wasn't.  
  
If nothing else, this was for Franklin.  
  
Because Franklin was his shadow now.  
  
It was Mr. Shaw's doing. Simon's moods must be because of what happened to his father, and as a good Christian Mr. Shaw had assigned his son to help that of his neighbor. They both knew it and neither really liked it. But the patriarch had spoken, and Franklin obeyed, and so he was around all the time, never really saying much, just sort of there.  
  
Just like me, Simon thought.  
  
He could tell that Franklin had something on his mind, and in more normal times Simon might have him asked what it was. But these were not normal times. Franklin was a Shaw. More than this he was the oldest male Shaw after Mr. Shaw himself, and that meant he had responsibilities, power, authority.  
  
What would Franklin do, if he knew what you did with his sister?  
  
God, don't even think it.  
  
#  
  
Franklin was gone now, gone home, and the door to Lucy's room was closed, Samantha safely behind it. Simon was sitting alone on his bed, just sitting, when suddenly the light went out. He looked up, saw Matt framed in the doorway, the light of the hall behind him.  
  
"Hey!"  
  
"Bedtime," Matt said.  
  
"Since when do you decide my bedtime?" Simon asked.  
  
"You've got school tomorrow. It's lights out."  
  
Simon rose, walked across the room and flipped the lights back on.  
  
"When I'm ready," he said.  
  
Matt stared at him. Simon could remember when Matt had been so much bigger, looking down at him. But Simon had filled out a lot in the last few years and it suddenly occurred to him that, hey, he could probably take his older brother, should it come to it.  
  
"I said lights out," Matt said again. "I'm in charge here."  
  
"What am I, five?" Simon demanded.  
  
"No, you just act like it. Get to bed." Matt flipped off the light again.  
  
There had been a time when Simon would have asked Matt for advice, when he would have trusted his older brother with the things that were roaring inside of him. But as he stared at Matt now, Simon had the sudden realization that Matt would not or could not help him, and with this it came to him that in fact their father, heart attack or no, would also be no help. They had always said in the Camden home that there was nothing you couldn't talk about, but now, as Simon just sighed and turned away from Matt, moving to his bed and lying down on it still fully clothed, it came to him that he was, as he had been with both Morris and Claire, really on his own, that the much vaunted love of family that his father so often had preached about from his pulpit was absent in his own home.  
  
Matt, satisfied that his authority was no longer challenged, left after a moment. Simon lay quietly for a time, wondering if things really could get any worse than this. 


	50. Darkness There

Darkness There  
  
* * *  
  
Quiet.  
  
Settling over the house, through the halls and the rooms. Mom had come home late, as always, talking a bit with Matt in the kitchen before she climbed the stairs and stepped to the master bedroom, there to settle exhausted and alone in the big bed, to sleep, snoring softly and oblivious.  
  
Quiet.  
  
Matt, too, in bed, in Ruthie's room with all the Hello Kitty things, in the room where he was happiest, most comfortable, snuggling with a stuffed toy at his breast.  
  
Quiet.  
  
It was hard to sleep.  
  
Simon had risen finally, had pulled off his shirt and pants and shoes, then had crawled back into bed in his underwear, punching his pillow once or twice in an attempt to get comfortable. This hadn't worked and as he lay he stared up at the faint outline of the ceiling overhead, he tried to calm himself, tried to still his rage.  
  
Second son.  
  
Preacher boy.  
  
Middle child.  
  
Lost.  
  
In time, he felt himself drifting off, and he hoped as he did that he wouldn't dream, that instead it would just be sleep, long and deep, that for a few hours at least he could stop being Simon Camden and just be nobody.  
  
Nobody.  
  
Mr. Nobody.  
  
With that gentle hand, running up the inside of his calf.  
  
This was pleasant, the hand warm, caressing softly from the knee to the ankle. A small hand, a hand experienced at touching. He mumbled something and moved his leg, shifted a bit as he came awake.  
  
Another hand, soft, against his lips, as his eyes came open, stifling his soft cry.  
  
"Shh .... There .... That's all right ...."  
  
Her head was framed by the low light of the hall outside, her hair forming almost a halo around her, her face in shadow as she looked down at him. Her hand withdrew from his leg, the fingers of the other still on his lips.  
  
"Hush now, lover," she said.  
  
"What?" he managed, recognition coming, and with that recognition, the first hints of fear. "Samantha?"  
  
Her head moved, just a bit, in a nod.  
  
"Yes. Hush now. Quiet. Don't wake the others."  
  
"What are you --?" His voice disappeared as she leaned to him and kissed him. Her hand had returned, had found its way underneath his sheet, was caressing him.  
  
"Shh ...." she whispered, kissing him again. "Better now?"  
  
Simon felt himself relaxing despite his fear. He nodded a bit, and she drew back. He raised his head from his pillow.  
  
"Samantha? What are you doing?"  
  
Her hand moved beneath the sheet, and his body's urgent response became almost painful.  
  
"What I did before," she said. "Remember?"  
  
He nodded helplessly. "Why?" he managed.  
  
"Because this way I know I can trust you."  
  
He tried to pull away, failed. Her hand was stronger than it looked.  
  
"What are you talking about?"  
  
"You are going to help me, Simon Camden. There ... how's that?"  
  
He groaned. "Please ...."  
  
She smiled and kissed him again, and again her lips were warm, her tongue soft, moist, as it toyed with his. Then she drew back. "Good boy," she told him softly.  
  
"Please," he moaned again. "Please ... what do you want?"  
  
"They call you the 'Bank of Simon'," she said. "They say you have money saved."  
  
He nodded. He did have some, several hundred dollars, stashed here and there. His siblings borrowed from him, at interest, always had. They bought clothes, makeup, food, did things to be popular, and they each lived outside their means, and he well within his. And there was still money, some of it, from his disastrous dating service affair, and money he had earned by mowing the lawn for Larry and Tom next door.  
  
Samantha watched him. He could see her face a little better now, her form. She was wearing a flannel nightgown and he could just make out the shape of her bosom beneath it.  
  
"That's good," she said. "I have some saved too. It should be enough."  
  
"Enough?" he asked her. "Enough for what?"  
  
She didn't answer right away, just leaned in to kiss him again. Below, her hand still expertly worked its magic. "I can trust you," she said then.  
  
"Trust me?" he croaked.  
  
"Not to tell. You know what will happen if you tell, Simon."  
  
"Tell?"  
  
"It happens all the time, of course. Innocent girl, and a boy who can't control himself. He asks her on a date and her parents trust him and she goes. She doesn't say anything about what happens, not for a long time, because of what he did and how it frightened her and hurt her. But she has evidence, things they can test for DNA. She kept them because she was ashamed and afraid. She didn't know what to do. But then finally she gets the courage, and she tells her father ...."  
  
Simon froze, unable to speak. Her voice was so soft, so sincere, that he almost believed her himself. Evidence? He thought back, to their date, to where they had parked, to what had happened then and how it had felt. Of course there would be evidence. And her word against his, the pure, perfect Shaw daughter against the sullen, rebellious Camden boy. The cliché of the preacher's kid.  
  
"Oh, God," he moaned. "Please ...."  
  
Her lips were gentle.  
  
"So you won't tell, will you, Simon? You won't say a word. You'll help, any way you can. I can trust you."  
  
His heart was pounding now, the blood roaring in his ears. And the voice, his own, seemed distant.  
  
"Yes. All right. Please .... What do you want? My money? What for?"  
  
Her hand, still beneath his sheets, stopped, resting against him, warm.  
  
"Ellen," she said. 


	51. And Nothing More

And Nothing More  
  
* * *  
  
It was odd to him, after a time, that Ellen Shaw hadn't come to visit, and he wondered about this. They must know that she had saved him, must know that she was a hero. But as days passed, each so much like the one before, each so filled with weakness, she never came.  
  
He wanted to thank her, first and foremost. Elvis had told him he should but more than this his heart told him to. And as well, he wanted to tell her what The King had said, that she had a good soul and that she had committed no sin, that her interests in boys and makeup were normal and healthy.  
  
Healthy. How much time do we as Christians talk about what is healthy? So much time we spend on what is sinful, on correcting sin. Why?  
  
He didn't know.  
  
He asked about Ellen one day. It was with Annie, who was by his bed so much.  
  
"What about her?" his wife asked.  
  
He spoke slowly. "How is she?"  
  
Annie shrugged. "I have no idea. What does it matter?"  
  
"I'd like ... to see her."  
  
"You should concentrate on getting better, Eric."  
  
Sleep had come after this, and then therapy, and time with his doctor and talk over and over about the future. His father at some point appeared, and his mother, the former telling him to be tough and the latter looking like she had aged a decade.  
  
And still it came back to Ellen Shaw. Annie didn't understand, so he asked a nurse.  
  
"The girl who they brought in with you? We haven't seen her."  
  
This nurse made way for another nurse, and then another, until finally it was a heavyset black woman.  
  
"I remember her," this nurse said. "She was in shock, poor thing. Her father came and picked her up. You mean she hasn't been by to see you?"  
  
Eric shook his head.  
  
"Now that is odd. You ask me, that girl deserves a medal. Made the 911 call, then had the sense to try CPR instead of panicking. Ellen, that was her name, right?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Well, I'll tell you what, Reverend. I'll see if I can't find her for you and bring her in to see you."  
  
"Thank you," Eric said. 


	52. No Means Maybe Please

No Means Maybe Please  
  
* * *  
  
She had to tell him herself.  
  
For some reason this bothered Lucy, like she was betraying a trust with him, but she had to do it. To soften the blow she kissed him long and passionately on the living room couch when he got home from his shift, ignoring the fact that Matt and Simon could both see what she was doing.  
  
"Well," Kevin said when she was finished, "that was something."  
  
He smiled that perfect smile that had so melted her heart when he had arrested her for terrorism in the Buffalo airport.  
  
She smiled back.  
  
"Well," she said, "there's something I need to talk to you about."  
  
His expression, wooden, didn't change. God, he was a hunk!  
  
She sat for a moment beside him, steeling herself.  
  
"Kevin, you know I love you more than anything."  
  
His grin broadened.  
  
"And I'd do anything for you."  
  
Broader still.  
  
"But --"  
  
Her voice caught.  
  
"But?" he asked. His tone, as always, carried with it that something, that tone, that made her feel small.  
  
"Well, it's my dad."  
  
"I've heard he's doing better."  
  
Lucy nodded. "Yes, but he's still recovering, and --"  
  
Kevin reached for her, kissed her hard. "What is it?" he asked when at last he allowed the kiss to be broken.  
  
"You know he was going to do the ceremony, but he won't be able to until he's better."  
  
Kevin shrugged, kissed her on the forehead. "Don't worry yourself about that, Lucy," he said. "There's that new associate pastor, Chandler is his name, right? He can do it. You don't want to miss your own wedding now, do you?"  
  
She squirmed a bit. Kevin's hands were very strong.  
  
"Kevin," she said. "I want it to be my dad. It has to be."  
  
"Your dad's sick, Lucy. Unless you want to do the wedding in the ICU, we're pretty much stuck with Chandler. Tell you what: we'll have the ceremony videotaped, and he can watch it on the VCR at the hospital."  
  
Lucy drew back. "No. He has to be there. It's always been my dream wedding, Kevin. It has to be him."  
  
A frown rolled across Kevin's face now, just in passing, and she felt his hand tense where it was resting on the back of her neck. It was strong, firm.  
  
"You really want to postpone the ceremony? What about my family? They're hard to get together. Did you think about that?"  
  
"Kevin, I'm sorry. Please. This is important to me."  
  
A moment passed, his hand still strong where it held her neck. Then he relaxed and his smile returned.  
  
"You're going to owe me big, Lucy Camden."  
  
She sighed, relieved. He was so handsome, such a hunk. She leaned forward and kissed him again.  
  
"Thank you," she said, after he finally let her go. 


	53. RIP

R.I.P.  
  
* * *  
  
It was dark when Samantha made the short walk across the street from the Camden house to her own, letting herself in the front door. It was good to be home, good to be away from Lucy, good to look forward to a long bath and then her own bed. Mom was back and had saved her some dinner, and this Samantha ate gratefully, finally excusing herself for bed and kissing her mother goodnight.  
  
Lucy, once, must have been likable. Samantha had brought up the Camden girl's past again and again, and with each story had encouraged her to tell another, until Lucy produced a box from the back of her closet filled with pictures and certificates and a cheerleader's outfit. Samantha pointed to one photo in particular.  
  
"You were doing construction?"  
  
"Oh, yes. Habitat for Humanity. I worked with the plumbing crew. We installed the kitchen and the bathrooms."  
  
"Sounds like hard work."  
  
Lucy smiled. "Yeah. But just think; there's a family with a roof over their heads now because of the work we did."  
  
"That must feel good."  
  
"It does. My dad always pushed for us to reach out and help people. It's just the way we were raised."  
  
"Well, I'm impressed, Lucy."  
  
"Thank you, Samantha. That means a lot."  
  
#  
  
The upstairs hall was quiet as Samantha made her way to the bathroom, running a tub of hot water and indulging herself with her favorite bath crystals. This felt good and she nearly dozed off; a long bath is a luxury in a populous household. Rising at last, she brushed her teeth and then stared at her naked reflection for a moment.  
  
Beautiful, they all said. Angelic, beautiful Samantha. They didn't say that about Ellen; boys didn't stare at her longingly, didn't beg her for attention.  
  
What is it? The shape of my face, my body? Is that all it takes to get a Simon Camden to do anything, to take risks like this?  
  
Simon.  
  
They had walked their dogs today, she and he. Had walked their dogs and talked. He had his money with him, a decent sum, and with hers maybe enough. But as he had extended it to her he had drawn back.  
  
"What is it?" she asked.  
  
He watched her from beneath those bushy, furrowed brows.  
  
"Maybe there's another way," he said. "I've been thinking. This isn't going to work. It isn't a good idea."  
  
"Are you backing out on me, Simon Camden?" she asked.  
  
"No." He shook his head vigorously in denial. "But I have an idea."  
  
"Tell me."  
  
He did, and she grilled him long and hard over it. Every detail, every possibility. But she had to admit that his idea had a certain genius, and when she was satisfied she looked him in the eye and spoke softly.  
  
"If this goes wrong, Simon, if anything happens to her, I won't bother with my father. I'll go straight to his gun collection. Do you understand?"  
  
Simon nodded, his face white.  
  
#  
  
Samantha made her way to her bedroom, opening the door quietly and stepping inside. It didn't take long to change for bed and her pillow felt good beneath her head as she lay down. She sighed from the exertions of the day.  
  
Motion, then, from the other bed. She looked over.  
  
Ellen was looking back at her.  
  
"I'm sorry," Samantha said. "I didn't mean to wake you."  
  
Ellen said nothing.  
  
Some moments passed. Then Ellen reached out, across the space between them, and Samantha felt her sister's hand, warm, against her cheek. She reached up without thinking, took the hand in her own.  
  
Each could just feel the pulse of the other.  
  
"Cold," Ellen said then.  
  
"Cold?"  
  
"He was cold. When I touched him."  
  
Samantha hesitated. "The Reverend?" she asked.  
  
Ellen nodded, the motion just visible.  
  
"Cold," she said again. "It only took a second. That's all it takes, Sam. Just a second. And then ...." Her voice drifted off.  
  
Samantha held her sister's hands in both of her own now, was staring at her.  
  
"El. You saved him. You know that."  
  
Ellen said nothing for a time. When she spoke again her voice was distant.  
  
"It's all so cold, Sam. Everywhere. God is cold. When I pray God is cold."  
  
Still holding her hands, Samantha watched her sister, saw her shiver beneath her blankets.  
  
"I think God is dead, Sam."  
  
Samantha did not move.  
  
"Dead?"  
  
Ellen nodded.  
  
"Ellen --" Samantha began, but Ellen's voice cut her off.  
  
"I'm dying too, Sam. I'm sorry." 


	54. Plotting And Pondering

Plotting  
  
* * *  
  
Kevin said nothing as he left the house and climbed the stairs to the unfinished garage apartment. Lucy had thanked him again for being so understanding, and she had kissed him passionately again as he left.  
  
But he had not responded.  
  
Postpone the wedding?  
  
He sat down and stared at the wall, raised a hand and scratched at his chin.  
  
Who the hell did she think she was?  
  
He had thought at first, Kevin had, that the whole heart attack business could be turned in his favor. Lucy was a daddy's girl, immature and childlike, constantly in need of male approval. Kevin had seen this right away and in fact it had been one of the things that had gotten his attention about Lucy when they had first met. But as nice as this was for him, it did carry a single risk: daddy's girls often had daddies who you had to watch out for.  
  
And Eric Camden might just be that sort of daddy. Lucy had to be eased into the new lifestyle she was going to have, a bit at a time, lest she go running to Eric and telling him about some of the things Kevin was doing with her. And since Eric knew Michaels and who knows who else in this town, that could spell trouble for Kevin's fun.  
  
And Kevin Kinkirk liked to have fun.  
  
But with Eric incapacitated, it should have been even easier to get Lucy in line. Sure, she might go running to Matt, but that boy was as big a wussy as Kevin had ever seen. Simon had more spine, but he was a mess with all his teen angst. That left Annie, who was as mean as a piranha in heat but who Kevin also knew he could manipulate. And he knew as well what none of the Camdens were willing to admit: Annie wasn't actually that fond of her two older daughters.  
  
But Eric was.  
  
Who would have thought that Eric would have more influence on Lucy while he was in a hospital bed than while he was healthy?  
  
For a little while Kevin weighed his options, taking out his service automatic and playing with it as he did. Ideally, Eric would just die, because then Lucy would come to him lock, stock and barrel and he could get her to marry him whenever he wanted, and then the real fun would begin. But reports about Eric's health only suggested a long recovery, which would delay the wedding until or unless Lucy's silly little fantasy could be changed.  
  
I just need the bastard to stand there and officiate one stupid ceremony, Kevin thought. Then he can die or whatever.  
  
Kevin Kinkirk did not like to wait for things, particularly fun things like Lucy Camden. He thought about this for a while.  
  
There were two other options, as he saw it. One, he could just dump Lucy and go hunting for someone else. That would have the fun of watching her come completely apart when he told her she wasn't woman enough for him, maybe that she was ugly or that her butt had gotten too big or something like that. Then he would be free to find some other woman who would do as she was told, and he could have some fun then.  
  
The trouble was that Lucy was a rare find: low self-esteem, an upbringing that denigrated women already, a desperate need for male approval, and a deeply repressed but very powerful sex drive. And she really wasn't bad looking, either, except for that hair, which he could make her fix.  
  
That left the other option. He had to manipulate her into dumping her loser dad. This wasn't going to be easy, and it irritated Kevin that he would have to do it. But it could be done; girls like Lucy Camden were charming precisely because you could get them to do things, and this was no different.  
  
Kevin took his pistol, checked to make sure it was unloaded, and pointed it in the general direction of the Camden household. He pulled the trigger, and heard the satisfying click. 


	55. Siblings

Siblings  
  
* * *  
  
"Up, Simon. Up."  
  
Simon groaned, rolled to his side. Matt poked him again.  
  
"Get up. You've got school."  
  
Simon blinked, glanced at his alarm clock.  
  
"Jeez," he groaned again. "It's 5:30."  
  
"Get up." Matt pulled the covers off his bed. Simon grabbed for them.  
  
"What are you doing?" he demanded.  
  
Matt stood up imperiously. "You've got chores to do. Get up, Simon."  
  
"Oh, God. Leave me alone. It's too early."  
  
Matt shook his head and made a little disgusted sound. "You are never going anywhere with an attitude like that. I get up earlier than this back in New York."  
  
"New York is in a different time zone," mumbled Simon, laying his head back on his pillow. "The alarm'll get me up in time for school. Leave me alone."  
  
Matt reached over, unplugged the alarm. "What is wrong with you, Simon? This house gets up at 5:30, and that's the way it is. GET UP."  
  
He punched Simon now, playfully but not quite.  
  
"Hey!" Simon sat up, glared at his brother. Matt stood there, his arms crossed.  
  
"You know," he said, "I'd heard that you were being trouble, but I didn't believe it. Now I'm starting to. Dad is in the hospital. Mom's worried sick. Thank God we've got the Shaws helping us, because you sure haven't been pitching in."  
  
Simon opened his mouth, almost said what he felt, closed it again. Instead he stood, faced his brother.  
  
Yeah, he thought then. I could so totally kick his ass.  
  
#  
  
It was different now, in the Camden household. Mr. Shaw would appear early each morning, talk with Matt about how things were. Mom had made a list of things to do, and Edward and Matt had divided these chores up. Lucy and Ruthie did some cleaning, and the rest fell to Simon: garbage, maintenance, cleaning out the garage, mowing the lawn. Matt would watch sometimes, but usually he just studied or played with the twins, who seemed to find their eldest brother infinitely amusing.  
  
On top of this, of course, was Simon's own schoolwork, plus having Franklin around, plus his clandestine meetings with Samantha. For a few days the Colonel and Ruth had been there, and Simon had noted his grandfather's nods of approval at the way Matt took charge.  
  
"That's good, son. That's good work."  
  
For Simon there had only been a disapproving stare.  
  
Simon was in the garage now, sorting old junk that wasn't even his, wondering if his life could get any worse. Franklin, at least, had gone home, and Samantha had gone with him.  
  
Christ, she was crazy, that one. Something in her tone told him that she wasn't kidding about her father's guns.  
  
Just as something told him she was telling him the truth about Ellen. This had to work, this idea. As crazy as it sounded it had to work. Because there were the other stories, about the other sister, about Andrea, about what had happened with her, and then there was what Samantha had said about the teen magazine and about the Berkeley catalog, about what had happened.  
  
Most of all there was his memory of Ellen, of what she had said to him in the park, about the way her voice was then.  
  
Do you ever think about death, Simon?  
  
Today Samantha had reminded him of it.  
  
Not a word, Simon. Not a hint, nothing. You keep this secret to the grave, do you understand me?  
  
I understand.  
  
I am alone.  
  
Alone, once again, as always, he thought. His hands were dirty and he needed to scratch his nose. This he did on his sleeve.  
  
Just then, Lucy came in.  
  
Up to see Kevin, no doubt, Simon thought. So they can swap spit. When was the last time I even kissed a girl?  
  
He thought of Samantha and shuddered, turning back to his work.  
  
"Simon?"  
  
He turned. Lucy was watching him.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Can we talk for a minute?"  
  
He shrugged. "Sure, I guess."  
  
She looked at the closed trapdoor to the garage apartment, then back at him. "Kevin's on duty tonight," she said. "He won't be back till morning."  
  
Simon wondered why this should matter. "Okay," he said.  
  
Lucy stepped to him, reached over to pick something up and toss it in the garbage.  
  
"Thanks," he said.  
  
She nodded and continued to work. He moved beside her.  
  
"Simon?" she asked.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Do you think Dad's going to be okay?"  
  
"I hope so."  
  
They worked for a while and she looked down at her hands, now dirty. "It's been a long time," she said.  
  
"Since what?"  
  
"Since I really worked. I remember fixing things. It was a lot of fun."  
  
He spoke truthfully. "You were good at it. I remember when you fixed the car."  
  
"Am I good at it now, do you think?" she asked.  
  
"Sure."  
  
Lucy sighed, pulled herself up and sat on the hood of the car. He moved to join her. "I just wonder --" she began, and then went quiet.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Why I don't do those sorts of things anymore. I've been thinking about that a lot. I just don't know anymore. About a lot of things."  
  
Simon nodded. Lucy went on.  
  
"Like Kevin. I want to marry him, don't I?"  
  
"Sure. That's what you've always said, right? You love him, right?"  
  
"Yeah. I just -- I don't know. Since Dad got sick, I don't know. Things are just different, Simon. Everything is different. It's like someone I don't know is writing my life, and it isn't me anymore."  
  
There was a noise at the door, and Matt stuck his head in.  
  
"What are you doing?" he asked Simon.  
  
"We're talking," Simon answered.  
  
"Talking isn't going to clean this garage, Simon." Matt looked at Lucy. "And don't you have laundry to do? Let's go, people. Get with the program."  
  
Simon sighed, his hands forming into fists, stood. Then he moved back to the junk he had been sorting. Matt stood there for a moment, watching him.  
  
Then Lucy stood also. She walked over to Matt, looked up at him.  
  
"Matt," she said, "get out of here."  
  
Matt drew up.  
  
"What?"  
  
"I said go. I'm talking to Simon."  
  
"And I'm in charge," Matt reminded her.  
  
Her hands went to her hips, her elbows forming points. "Oh?" she asked. "And who says that?"  
  
Simon had stopped working and now watched his brother and sister. Matt looked suddenly nervous.  
  
"Mr. Shaw," he said. "He said I was."  
  
Lucy didn't move.  
  
"Well," she said, "that's very nice for you, Matt Camden. But Mr. Shaw is not a Camden and I'm talking to my brother now, so you are going to leave. Do you understand me?"  
  
Matt stood very still. He towered over Lucy, glaring down at her. She merely looked back up at him, and Simon could just see her face in the low light. Matt tried to match her stare, but finally he turned away and went back into the house. Lucy closed the door after him, and then she returned to the car and sat back down, patting the spot beside her.  
  
With a chuckle Simon climbed back up.  
  
They talked until well after midnight, and it was good. 


	56. Strong Men

Strong Men  
  
* * *  
  
Along the twin rivers that embraced the cradle of civilization, war raged, and as is always the case with war, it didn't quite go as planned. The Joshua Shaws in their M-1 Abrams tanks were not met with minimal resistance and cheering crowds as they had been promised, but with blood and death and pain and loss as they rolled northward toward Baghdad. Shock and Awe thundered around them as they saw and did things that no young person should ever have to see and do, while with them reporters sent back stories to America that kept their families close to televisions, the internet, and newspapers.  
  
Rebecca stayed busy with the lives of her children and the Camden children, adding an extra prayer at each meal for Joshua, squeezing in what bits of the news she could and always waiting for that ring of the doorbell, for those men in uniform who would come to tell her that the child she had borne and raised would not be coming home.  
  
Please, Jesus, she thought. Keep him safe.  
  
In his office, Edward Shaw kept one window on his computer always open to the CNN website. There was another to his own website, to the posting board, to his own less shocking and less awesome war.  
  
For Seeker had finally shown the weakness that Eric had told Edward would bring him down.  
  
#  
  
"I am afraid, Edward. This war frightens me. I pray that your son is safe, but I also worry that we are getting into something we don't understand, that we think everything is going to be fine when it isn't. I don't share your faith in the president."  
  
#  
  
"But faith is the first step for everything, Seeker. This war is necessary; have we learned nothing from 9-11? Christians all around the world are being oppressed and persecuted, but nowhere so badly as in the Middle East, which is where terrorism began. Christians have to fight back. You know what Franklin Graham, the son of Billy Graham, has said about the god of Islam, that it is a wicked, evil god and not the God of Christianity. We do not merely go to Iraq to depose Saddam but to open that part of the world up to the light, to the message of Christ, so we can save as many of them as possible before the end times come. President Bush is a strong man, a man of conviction, a Christian man. He does not flinch from his ideals, which are Christian ideals. Should we have waited until Saddam had a nuclear bomb? The politicians may not want to admit it, but True Christians know the truth. This is a holy crusade against terrorism and against the enemies of Christ, who are so numerous over there.  
  
"But I understand your fear, Seeker. Have you given yourself over to Jesus? If there is any message that this war brings us, it is that our own futures are uncertain. I would be saddened indeed if, God forbid, a terrorist were to kill you before you had been saved, for this would not just be one death, but two, that of your body and also your soul."  
  
#  
  
The message posted, Edward went back to work. Perhaps Seeker would see the light of Christ through his pain, through his unease. It seemed strange to Edward, but he realized that after all this time he had developed a grudging fondness for Seeker, twisted and wrong though his interpretations of the Bible were.  
  
Perhaps this was because the man was so sincere, so polite. As wrong as his views were, he never insulted Edward or any of his online flock, despite some of the things that others had posted about him.  
  
Perhaps soon he would identify himself.  
  
Perhaps soon he would be saved.  
  
Edward worked for a while, his fingers tapping rapidly and knowledgeably across his keyboard, the cursor of his mouse floating across his screen. He thought of Joshua again, checked the CNN webpage.  
  
Nothing new.  
  
It was hard, these days, to work, hard to concentrate. Peter had called last night and they had talked; this was particularly good for Rebecca, who as a woman felt the strain differently and more deeply than Edward did as a man. It was good to hear from his second son, good to hear his voice.  
  
"How is everyone, Dad?"  
  
"We're all right."  
  
"Ellen? Is she praying?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"She's a good girl, Dad. She'll be all right. She just needs guidance."  
  
Edward remembered nodding. It was good to hear, good to get Peter's opinion. They had talked, Edward and Peter had, after the incident with the pornography, and Peter had reassured Edward that what he was doing was right.  
  
He was a good son.  
  
Christ had given Edward Shaw good sons.  
  
And good daughters. Samantha, Virginia, they were good. And Ellen would be good. She would be like her mother, a virtuous woman in the eyes of Christ.  
  
Another name came to Edward then, unannounced and unwanted. He blinked at the sudden tears, wiped his eyes and forced the image away.  
  
Get thee behind me, Satan.  
  
They had talked some more, he and Peter, before he had surrendered the phone to Rebecca. Peter had a good head on his shoulders; he agreed completely about the war and the President. You could count on Peter.  
  
Family is so important, Edward thought now as he returned to his work. You have to keep them together, have to keep in touch, keep in control. That's the job of the father. Your wife and children have to be able to look to you to be strong.  
  
Just as the Camden children were looking to him now.  
  
Edward sighed and glanced at the CNN webpage again. The picture of a burning building in downtown Baghdad dominated the screen, and as he clicked once again back to his work Edward glanced over at the picture of Joshua that sat on his desk.  
  
The world was dangerous, threatening. He had to keep it all together. 


	57. Look For A Jeep

Look For A Jeep  
  
* * *  
  
Up.  
  
It is late.  
  
Hushed whispers, a final hug. A kiss.  
  
I'm afraid. I'm so afraid.  
  
I know. But you have to do this.  
  
Will I see you again?  
  
Yes, someday.  
  
I love you.  
  
I love you too.  
  
Open the door, scan the hallway.  
  
It's empty.  
  
One step, then another, down the hall. Past a door, past another.  
  
This one is open, and there, inside, you see him. Just sitting on his bed, like he is thinking.  
  
Fear, sudden and sharp, cuts through you. He sees you, his eyes meeting yours, just in that second. You freeze from years of instinct. You want to say something, make some excuse for why you are dressed, maybe save yourself.  
  
Only now, as he watches you, he does not move.  
  
Finally he turns his gaze away.  
  
You step on.  
  
Quietly, down the stairs, down to the door in the back. The bag, your bag, is there where your sister left it, hidden. As you pick it up another spasm of fear jolts through you.  
  
Do you know what you are doing? Do you know where you are going?  
  
No. Maybe.  
  
How can it be that you must do this? How can it be that this place isn't safe anymore? Isn't this supposed to be a safe place? Do they not love you?  
  
As you move outside into the darkness, the bag now in your hand, you reflect on this, wondering if the pounding of your heart can be heard in the stillness of the night. And you know what you have always known: they do love you. They love you more deeply than anything. For you they would take any risk, any action. Their great fear, their greatest fear, is not hell, but heaven, heaven without you.  
  
And this you must betray. This love, this family. You must turn your back on it, on them, just as you saw done once before. You have no illusions now, as you carefully make your way down the alley behind your home, then to another street and then in the direction of the park. You know what this will do to them, what you are doing to them.  
  
But you must. You must. Do not look back. Do not give in to the fear, even as ahead the park looms in the darkness, cut by a streetlamp or two, and there, parked at the other end, is the Jeep you have been told will be waiting for you. Do not look back because looking back is them, those who love you, those who in their love gave you life, who in their love gave you God, who in their love brought the belt down, hard, again and again, those who in their love demanded that you pray for forgiveness, and those who in their love have now sent you here.  
  
Look for a Jeep, you were told. Here's the license number. His name is Morris. You can trust him.  
  
As you approach a single figure emerges from the Jeep. A tall boy, he asks you your name and you tell him.  
  
"I'm Morris," he says, and he takes your bag and puts it in the back. "Hop in."  
  
You climb inside and fasten your seatbelt.  
  
And the park and the neighborhood and the town and those you love, every one of them, disappear into the darkness behind you. 


	58. Slow Panic

Slow Panic  
  
* * *  
  
Panic came only slowly, but there were reasons for this, good reasons. Day at the Shaw house always began before dawn, with Edward and Rebecca rising, the former to prepare for work and then to go over to the Camden house and supervise things there, checking with Annie and Matt about what needed to be done. This was an important time because Eric was to come home in a few days and things needed to be ready for him.  
  
Rebecca stayed in her house, moving to the kitchen to prepare breakfast for her children, Ruthie and the Camden twins, the latter of whom were so cute as they sat and pointed and recited lines from gospel tunes. Franklin would also be up by now, dressing and eating and heading out for his paper route. That today of all days he seemed more tired than usual was noted in passing by his mother, who kissed him on the forehead and sent him on his way.  
  
She then headed upstairs to make sure the girls were awake, which on this day, as usual, they were, Samantha getting dressed as she prepared for her chores, and Ellen presumably in the bathroom. Rebecca gave Samantha a nod of approval and headed back down to the kitchen, where soon eggs were cracking and sausage steaming (Rebecca knew better than to ever fry it) and orange-juice flowing.  
  
It got busy then.  
  
Chores had to be done. Ruthie ate happily and then went out to catch her bus to school; she was wearing skirts and dresses all the time now, and Rebecca handed her her lunch with a smile as she headed out the door. Virginia sorted some laundry and Samantha dusted and tidied up the living room, while Barry went out into the morning and did some weeding in the back yard.  
  
By ten Franklin had returned from his route and the Shaw children had begun to gather for their daily lessons, the Camden twins sitting happily on the couch with Barry. Rebecca did a quick count of her children.  
  
One.  
  
Two.  
  
Three.  
  
Four.  
  
"Where's Ellen?"  
  
Virginia shrugged. Barry fidgeted. Rebecca turned to Samantha.  
  
"She wasn't feeling well last night," Samantha said. "Maybe she's resting."  
  
Rebecca looked at her daughter for a moment. Samantha's face, as always, was serene. Rebecca nodded.  
  
"What was wrong?" she asked.  
  
"She said it was a stomachache."  
  
"I see." Rebecca paused. "Wait here," she said then. "I'll just check and see if she needs anything."  
  
She ascended the stairs, moved down the hall, knocked quietly on the door of the bedroom.  
  
"Ellen? Is everything all right?"  
  
Nothing. Rebecca opened the door.  
  
Samantha's bed was made, immaculate. Ellen's was not.  
  
She's probably in the bathroom.  
  
Rebecca made her way to this door, knocked.  
  
"Ellen?"  
  
Silence. She tried the knob.  
  
Locked.  
  
She knocked harder.  
  
"Ellen? Ellen? Are you in there?"  
  
Still nothing.  
  
#  
  
Quick steps now, to her bedroom, to her vanity. A hairpin in hand, and back to the bathroom door. The lock came open easily.  
  
Empty.  
  
"Ellen?" she called.  
  
Still silent, but with this silence the beginnings of fear, of unease.  
  
The daily lessons went on hold, the children enlisted to search. Top to bottom in the house, every room. Is she hiding?  
  
No.  
  
It was nearly eleven-thirty when Rebecca called Edward. Is she with you? Did you take her to work?  
  
Of course not. What's going on?  
  
We can't find her. I've sent Franklin to check at the Camdens'. Samantha is out looking through the neighborhood. Edward --  
  
It's all right. I'll be right home.  
  
#  
  
Perhaps it was Andrea, in spirit if not in flesh. Or perhaps it was bigger than their eldest daughter, was bigger than the memory of how once, not that long ago, their eight children had become seven. Perhaps, as we consider the rest of that day, we should consider the world of the Shaws, the world which saw Christian believers against everyone else, with no one in between. Perhaps we should consider the broader culture of which the Shaws were a part, a culture in which enemies abounded in the form of secularists, atheists, gays, feminists, Muslims and Hindus and Buddhists, and even, unspoken, the Jews and so-called Christians who denied the truths that to Edward and Rebecca Shaw and others like them were self evident: Quakers, Catholics, Jehovah's Witnesses, Mormons.  
  
Perhaps.  
  
Their world was a fearful place, and in such a world a daughter who was not where she was supposed to be was a daughter in danger.  
  
A daughter who had been tempted not once, but twice.  
  
A daughter who had fallen.  
  
A daughter they had to save.  
  
And so it was perhaps for this reason, gentle reader, that by one in the afternoon Detective Michaels of the Glenoak Police Department was sitting in the Shaws' living room trying to piece together what was going on. 


	59. Homecoming

Homecoming  
  
* * *  
  
"You'll be back at the church soon. I know you will."  
  
There was a strain to Annie's voice. Just barely there, just perceptible, like she was saying it as much to herself as to him. She had said it before, several times, at the hospital, as she encouraged him to get well, as she worked with him and the physical therapist.  
  
He wondered what this all meant.  
  
This and more. He thought about Ellen Shaw.  
  
Gone, Annie had told him. Just gone. Detective Michaels is handling the case personally, as a favor to me.  
  
Did she run away? Eric asked.  
  
They don't know. The Shaws could use your help, Eric, your guidance. You are a Minister; you help those in need. Go to them.  
  
He had said nothing.  
  
The little electric car hummed a bit as it pulled into the familiar driveway, as Annie engaged the brake and turned off the motor. Eric fumbled with the door and she hurried around to help him. It was still hard to stand.  
  
You'll need a double bypass, the doctors had told him. When you're stronger.  
  
I want pizza. I want a burger. I want a milkshake.  
  
No. Never again.  
  
#  
  
There was no big party, no gathering like there had been that time on his birthday when all those people he had helped had assembled for him and Lucy had told him she wanted to become a Minister. Just family this time, just Annie and Matt and Lucy helping him with his things, just Simon bringing him a glass of juice as he sat in the living room, Ruthie just watching.  
  
Simon watching him too, as though he wanted to say something but could not.  
  
What is it, my son?  
  
Matt was directing things. He had that tone that doctors sometimes have, giving orders with the assumption that they would simply and wordlessly be followed. He was a good boy, a good son. He was going to be a gynecologist. Eric had thought once, back when he was younger, that he would have liked to have been a gynecologist; there was something about that subject that he found endlessly fascinating, about that place where life emerged.  
  
He remembered watching his children being born, remembered his father's advice about that.  
  
"It's no place for a man, Eric. Not there."  
  
But it is, Dad, don't you see? It is.  
  
Now his family moved around him, wanting to be there but not. Only the twins were really sociable.  
  
"Daddy not sick now?" one asked.  
  
"No," he said. "Daddy better."  
  
"Lord, we are able. Our spirits are thine," David said to Sam.  
  
"Remold them, make us, like thee, divine," answered Sam to his brother.  
  
Eric smiled. "Love me tender, love me dear," he told them.  
  
They both smiled and hugged close to him.  
  
#  
  
Later, Detective Michaels appeared. He shook Eric's hand firmly.  
  
"How are you?" he asked.  
  
Eric smiled. "Better."  
  
Michaels nodded. "I hope you don't mind," he said. "I wanted to ask you some questions."  
  
"Sure."  
  
Michaels sat. "You've heard about Ellen Shaw," he said.  
  
Eric nodded.  
  
"I understand that you were counseling her."  
  
Eric nodded again. "There was some trouble in her family," he said.  
  
"What sort of trouble?"  
  
Eric watched Michaels. He had always trusted the man, but something, now, made him hesitate.  
  
Whatever I say, he realized, he'll have to tell them, will have to tell Ed and Rebecca.  
  
"Nothing serious," Eric said, hoping the lie sounded convincing. "Teenagers have conflicts with their parents. You know how it is."  
  
Michaels watched him closely. "I see. Was it trouble that might lead to her running away?"  
  
Eric said nothing, thought back. He remembered watching Ellen, remembered all the diagnoses running through his head. What he would say, how he would treat this, how he would treat that. Answers had always seemed to come so easily before.  
  
What answer would he give Ellen Shaw now? You shouldn't honor your father and your mother? That maybe running away would be the right thing to do?  
  
Wherever you are, Ellen, I hope you're safe. I'll pray for you.  
  
"I don't know," he said.  
  
Michaels looked surprised. "Did she ever hint that she might?"  
  
"Not to me." Eric shook his head. "What happened to her?"  
  
Michaels sighed and shrugged, reached up and rubbed at his brow. "We don't know. Her brother saw her the night before, and her sister Samantha vouches for her getting up that morning; they share a room. She disappeared sometime after that. The last anyone heard of her, she said she wasn't feeling well."  
  
"No leads? No witnesses?"  
  
"We've canvassed the neighborhood. A lot of people have been out looking. Nothing. If there's anything you can remember, Eric, anything at all .... Those poor folks are worried sick about her."  
  
Eric nodded. "I'll try."  
  
"Thanks." Michaels rose and Annie showed him to the door. Then she returned to Eric and sat down on the couch beside him.  
  
"Terrible," she said.  
  
"Hm?" Eric asked.  
  
"When a child disappears. There are some sick people in the world, aren't there?"  
  
Eric nodded. A little while later he spoke again.  
  
"Do you have Mary's phone number?" he asked. "I'd like to call her, hear how she is."  
  
Annie watched him. "Are you sure that's a good idea, Eric?" she asked. "Your heart --"  
  
"My heart wants to hear my daughter's voice."  
  
Annie watched him for a moment, then nodded and rose wordlessly to get the phone. 


	60. No Way

No Way  
  
* * *  
  
There is nothing, nothing that can prepare you for it. No planning is enough, no number of those fearful thoughts that come, sooner or later, to all of us when we look at our child, our niece, our nephew, our grandchild, and imagine them gone. Nothing can prepare you for that sudden instant of panic, that sudden realization that something is wrong, something unspeakable, that they are missing.  
  
Gone.  
  
And you do not know where.  
  
Two days now. Across the street, Eric Camden had returned home, looking thin and worn, but there were no Shaws at his house to welcome him, to help him. No. They were in their own home now, Ruthie and the Camden twins having been sent back to their family, each watching the Shaws, each feeling just that bit of what they felt as Annie escorted them out the door.  
  
"Rebecca, if there's anything you need ...."  
  
The woman's face, hollow, lined, fatigued.  
  
"Thank you, Annie. You've done so much. Thank you."  
  
"We'll pray for her," Annie said. "The whole congregation."  
  
Rebecca nodded, wiped at sudden tears.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
They did, too, you know. Even Lou. And Mrs. Bink made some calls and some threats and soon the entire congregation had joined in the search, which had already made several sweeps of the Promenade, it being the center of Glenoak, and radiating out from there. Reverend Morgan's parishioners had joined early and with gusto, as did the members of Rabbi Glass' synagogue and the entirety of the local Muslim community, led by their Imam and a plucky girl named Yasmine. They went through alleys and underbrush and put up posters of the smiling face of Ellen Shaw all over town even as Detective Michaels sent extra officers out with dogs.  
  
Her scent they found.  
  
In the neighborhood, in some nearby stores that the Shaws frequented, in a nearby park where she had once walked the family dog.  
  
Then nothing.  
  
#  
  
The strain, of course, was deepest and most profound on the twin. Though fraternal, the two were close, and Samantha Shaw was quiet now, her angelic face unable to hide her fear, her pain. On that first night she had gone to her parents, had crept into their room in the dark, had touched her mother's shoulder as the woman tried unsuccessfully to sleep.  
  
"Mom?"  
  
Rebecca looked up at her daughter in the gloom. Edward turned and watched her.  
  
"Yes, dear?"  
  
"I can't sleep."  
  
"No?"  
  
"Not in there. I keep seeing her bed."  
  
Rebecca nodded, shifted over a bit, drew back the covers. Edward moved as well, and Samantha crawled in beside her mother, who wrapped her arms around her protectively.  
  
And sleep was slow in coming, and fitful, and on the next night Samantha stayed with them again. In the quiet she spoke softly, and Edward and Rebecca listened.  
  
"I wish --"  
  
Rebecca cuddled her daughter, kissed her.  
  
"Hush, honey."  
  
"No. I don't understand, Mom. She was there. I saw her get up. It was like every morning. She said her prayers. She was going to do her chores. I don't understand."  
  
"Shh .... It's all right, Samantha."  
  
But the daughter, the last witness, the one who Michaels had interviewed for several hours, only sobbed a bit.  
  
"What if she's hurt, Mom? What if someone is hurting her?"  
  
On the other side of the bed, Edward tensed in his agony.  
  
And Rebecca was weeping again, holding Samantha tight.  
  
Because this was worse than it had been with Andrea. There they had known something. There she had told them that she was leaving. Later she had even sent them a note to tell them that she was getting married. They could be angry with her, even think they hated her, but they still knew, deep down inside, that she was alive, that she was safe. It was worse than their fears for Joshua, even in the horror of war, because he at least had a fighting chance. With Ellen there was nothing.  
  
She was simply gone.  
  
There was no way to prepare. 


	61. Fly Balls

Fly Balls  
  
* * *  
  
Days passed. A malaise had settled over Glenoak, an unfamiliar sensation of something wrong that with each new morning still remained. This was new to the citizens of this town, who in the past had seen so many problems solved or sent away forever in a day or two that they had become unaccustomed to lingering pain. But the pain was there, raw and open, staring out at them with the smile of a sixteen-year-old girl on the posters scattered all over town. Her face had been on television, too, on the news from the local station.  
  
How could this have happened in our community? How could this have happened in Glenoak?  
  
Listless, devoid of an answer, the citizens of the small, picturesque town where violent crime was generally limited to the stabbing of police officers by the homeless and the beating of the partners of those police officers by irate women in domestic disputes, all went through their daily routines, hoping that this problem, like all the others to which they had ever been exposed, would simply be solved by a local religious authority or his family.  
  
But let us take a moment to consider baseball.  
  
It is, of course, the national pastime, its history intertwined with the history of the nation, with names like Babe Ruth and Hank Aaron a central part of the consciousness of America. And as a part of this heritage, it is common to the point of clichés that American boys, at some point in their lives, pick up a glove and a bat and a ball and entertain, even if only for a moment or a day, that it is the bottom of the 9th in game 7 of the World Series, two outs, bases loaded, two strikes and no balls, and it is they who must hit the grand slam.  
  
Franklin Shaw was no exception.  
  
Like many American boys, he had a bat and a glove and balls, and if the gentle reader can drag their minds out of the gutter and back into our story, they can follow us as we follow Franklin to the nearby park, where today he went alone, to throw the ball to himself, to hit it with his bat, and to think.  
  
He was thinking a lot these days.  
  
That night. That last night. He had seen her, had seen Ellen. It had been late and it had been dark and she had passed in front of his door and there she had stopped and looked at him, and he at her, and then she had stepped on down the hall, probably to the bathroom. She must have been in there a long time because he had been asleep when she returned to her room, but he didn't see this as unusual; girls' bodies were a mystery to him and he knew that there were things they had to do to stay clean that probably took a lot of time. Then the next day had come and she disappeared.  
  
A crack as his bat connected with the ball and the latter went high up in the air.  
  
Fly ball. He ran a bit to try and catch it as it came down.  
  
Disappeared.  
  
Franklin stopped, and the ball hit the grassy ground before him and rolled a bit. As he stepped to pick it up, his gut seized and he stopped suddenly as his eyes filled with tears.  
  
I could have said something, that night. I could have said I love you.  
  
I could have done what I was supposed to do and protect you. I'm your brother and that's what I'm supposed to do.  
  
Franklin wiped his eyes, sat. The tears kept coming and he was glad he was alone. It wouldn't do to have Mom or Dad catching him crying. Crying was for girls and little kids, not for a man. And he was a man, was entrusted with a man's responsibility. Watch your sisters, Franklin. Make sure they are safe. Make sure they aren't tempted.  
  
Like Ellen was.  
  
Franklin sobbed, unable to stop. I'm sorry, Ellen. I'm sorry I wasn't there. There's something about this town, about this place, that tempted you, I know. I should have been there, should have protected you. I just want you back, just want to see you again. I want to see you smile like you are smiling in that picture they've pasted everywhere, smile like you used to, before ....  
  
Before that night.  
  
That night with the bag and the magazine and the catalog.  
  
I'm sorry.  
  
#  
  
He didn't know how long he sat there, just sobbing. A few minutes, perhaps more. But he heard the sound of the car stopping, its door opening, and wiping his eyes in shame, he looked up.  
  
Police cruiser.  
  
Kevin, and getting out of the driver's side opposite him, a slender blonde woman.  
  
Franklin stood and Kevin stepped up to him.  
  
"Good afternoon, Franklin," the policeman said.  
  
Reflex kicked in.  
  
"Good afternoon, Sir."  
  
Kevin gave him a curt nod, looked over at the discarded bat and glove.  
  
"Playing some baseball?"  
  
"Yes, Sir."  
  
Another nod.  
  
"That's good. I haven't seen you these past few days. I've missed my morning paper."  
  
Franklin looked up at the officer.  
  
"I'm sorry," he said.  
  
Kevin smiled. "That's all right, son. I know it's been hard for you. But don't worry. We'll find your sister. We'll bring her home."  
  
Franklin nodded. He looked at Kevin, then over at the blonde, who was watching them both, then back at Kevin again. Kevin was smiling at him confidently, his expression wooden, his hands on his hips, one resting against the hilt of his pistol. Franklin had seen that look somewhere before.  
  
That night. That night he had brought in the plastic bag.  
  
"Thank you, Sir," Franklin said softly. 


	62. Hot Date Not

Hot Date ... Not  
  
* * *  
  
Kevin was, of course, lying. This wasn't malicious, but neither was it out of any particular sympathy for Franklin. The boy was just a snot-nosed little punk, after all, sitting there crying about his sister. Would I have cried if Patty Mary disappeared?  
  
Of course not. I'm not even quite sure where she is now, and you don't see me getting all blubbery.  
  
The boy was weak, and weakness was worthy only of contempt.  
  
Of course, this was not the face Kevin showed the world, particularly not Edward and Rebecca. For them he was all professional courtesy, professional sympathy. She probably ran away, he had told them. She's probably just a troubled child in need of boundaries and discipline. We'll find her, and we'll bring her home.  
  
He let Michaels break the bad news to them that the Glenoak PD had no solid leads. He let Eric and Annie handle the sympathy crap.  
  
Tonight he was going to have fun.  
  
It would be with Lucy, of course. A date down at the pool hall, a little time together. This was important because he had to stretch her boundaries before they married, had to open her mind up to some new things. Nothing graphic, not yet, but some subtle manipulation, some subtle hinting. Maybe at a restaurant he could accidentally drip some hot wax from a romantic candle on her, just to see how she reacted.  
  
Hot wax on her bare skin was going to be a big part of her life someday, you know.  
  
With this pleasant thought in his mind Kevin prepared, showering and selecting a clean shirt and pants, dabbing on some aftershave. Then he climbed down the stairs to the garage and walked into the house, opening the kitchen door as though it was his own. Lucy was there, smearing jam on some bread in a rather clumsy attempt to make a sandwich.  
  
"Hi, honey," Kevin intoned. "Ready?"  
  
Lucy looked up at him.  
  
"Ready?" she asked. "For what?"  
  
Kevin put on a face of slight disappointment.  
  
"Well, for our date, Lucy."  
  
Realization hit her and he saw it go in. This was excellent; guilt opened people up to all sorts of things, and Lucy had always carried a lot of guilt inside.  
  
"Oh, God," she said. "I'm sorry. I forgot."  
  
He smiled.  
  
"Really? Well, maybe I can forgive you, Lucy Camden."  
  
She shook her head. "No, really, I'm sorry, Kevin. I can't go. Not tonight. I know we had plans, but ...."  
  
He took a step toward her.  
  
"But? But what? I rearranged my shift for this, Lucy. I pulled a favor."  
  
She slapped a slice of bread atop some jelly. "Kevin, I'm sorry. But it's Samantha. She needs me. Mrs. Shaw said she asked for me. She's really broken up about her sister."  
  
"She'll live, Luce. It isn't your problem. Let it go."  
  
Lucy regarded him.  
  
"Kevin," she said. "I'm studying to be a Minister. You said you wanted that. Well, this is part of what Ministers do. And she was there for me, when Dad was sick. I can't just say no if she needs me."  
  
Kevin stepped forward again, put his hand around the back of her neck, regarded her coldly.  
  
"I see. So Samantha Shaw, who has her family and your parents and half your family over there comforting her, needs one more Camden?"  
  
Lucy tensed, just a bit, under his hand.  
  
"She's my friend, Kevin. She was there for me."  
  
His hand gripped, just a bit tight, his face expressionless. Then he relaxed.  
  
"What about us, Lucy? You and me. Are we part of your plan?"  
  
"Of course. I'm sorry, Kevin. I really am. We'll make time. I promise."  
  
Kevin released her, looked down at her.  
  
"I'll remember that," he said, and turned and stepped away.  
  
#  
  
He knew she was watching him as he left, as he stepped back to the garage and his apartment above it. And he wondered, too, Kevin did, if she could see his rage.  
  
Women did not say no to Kevin Kinkirk. Women did not deny him his fun.  
  
He played some with his saber, slashing the empty air and imagining Indians being decapitated as he did. After a while of this, he turned to his pistol and cleaned it carefully, then returned it to its holster.  
  
And he thought. He thought deep and hard. He thought about what he should do.  
  
Maybe hitting on Roxanne was the answer. She was pretty and he knew that Lucy was already jealous of her. Some hot kissing, maybe getting his hand on some flesh. That would be fun, and he could blame Roxanne and know that Lucy would believe him. This thought, especially the thought of Roxanne without clothes on, was a pleasant one, and for a little while Kevin smiled at it, at the fantasy.  
  
But even as he did, he knew it wouldn't work. Roxanne was too tough. He was pretty sure she was into the scene, and not in a submissive way, and those dominant women quite frankly scared him a bit. And she probably believed in that "safe, sane and consensual" crap that took all the fun out of it. No, he needed Lucy. He needed her here, doing what he told her to do, like it had been before all this trouble with her father's heart. He needed her married to him, because she was the sort who took fidelity seriously and who would try to please her husband and wouldn't bail when things got dirty, especially if she was a Minister with a reputation to uphold.  
  
Well, her dad was back now, wasn't he? They could set up the wedding again, could set a date. She could have her stupid fantasy, and Kevin could have his fun.  
  
Kevin sighed. There had been something in Lucy's gaze tonight, something he hadn't seen in her before but that he recognized.  
  
Loyalty. That damn Samantha Shaw had gone and earned his woman's loyalty.  
  
Goddammit!  
  
He hadn't counted on this, and he cursed himself for not knowing better. One of the first rules of real fun with a girl was keeping her focused on you, getting her away from any friends and keeping her away from them.  
  
But was Samantha really Lucy's friend, or was Lucy just sympathetic to the girl? It was probably the latter, since Lucy really wasn't the sort who made for a very good friend, when it came down to it.  
  
Kevin smiled again. This could be solved. It would take some work to fix, but at least he knew where to begin.  
  
He had to get things back to normal.  
  
Kevin had said it before, but hadn't really meant it. Now he did.  
  
He had to find Ellen Shaw.  
  
One way or another. 


	63. Have You Seen Me?

Have You Seen Me?  
  
* * *  
  
They were sympathetic at work. He was glad for that, though it made him uncomfortable, too, because he wasn't used to being this weak, this vulnerable. He was Edward Shaw, the man you could count on, the man who was strong, independent, as a Christian man should be.  
  
Faith, he had always said, was all you needed.  
  
But now he needed more.  
  
What was he to say, to himself, to God, knowing that Muslims and atheists had joined in the search for his daughter? How was he to proclaim the true gospel of Christ's church and his impending return and judgment when the wicked came to his aid as they had? Should he have told them no? Should he have risked his daughter for the pride of the righteous?  
  
Would God judge him for letting them help?  
  
Because they were helping, these people were. They had scoured the neighborhood, the town, the area outside of town. Because of Eric Camden's connections with all the religious leaders in Glenoak, Ellen's disappearance had become very public indeed.  
  
And that had meant that Edward Shaw had been forced to face some of the enemies of his faith, and face them with a smile.  
  
Like yesterday. He had never really spoken to a Muslim before, but then Eric had brought that Imam to his door, and Edward had felt compelled to let the man into his home.  
  
"We're praying for her, Mr. Shaw. And we will find her, In'Sha'Allah."  
  
Rebecca had said nothing. After Eric and the man left she had vacuumed the carpet where he had walked and the cushions of the couch where he had sat.  
  
And Edward had only watched and wondered. He thought about Samantha, about the fear in her eyes, in her voice. Somehow the idea had gotten in deep with her that Ellen was being hurt, that unspeakable things were being done to her. Rebecca was doing all she could for her, for Samantha, and they would pray together and weep together and often Rebecca would hold Samantha while she slept.  
  
This helped Samantha, but Edward could see the pain it was bringing his wife.  
  
Thank God for Lucy Camden, who was so often at Samantha's side.  
  
Please, God, Edward thought now. Please. Ellen has to be safe. It can't be that someone is hurting her. It can't. Is this a test of my faith, of my family's? Please, God, we are loyal. We obey your commandments, surrender ourselves to your son, who gave his life for us. I know I'm a sinner, I know I cannot help but be a sinner, but I have given myself to Christ. I preach the word of your kingdom. I preach against the deceiver. I know she sinned, God, but Ellen is a good girl. She has begged for your forgiveness.  
  
Please, bring her home.  
  
But images, thoughts, memories of the news and other men's daughters and what had happened to them preyed on Edward Shaw.  
  
He turned back to his computer. Baghdad had fallen and there was a lot of news about Saddam's statues coming down, plus something about the national museum and the national archives being looted and burned. People were making a big fuss over this.  
  
At least Joshua was all right.  
  
Do I tell him about his sister? Or would that only distract him?  
  
Edward sighed, his hand trembling. He clicked on his own site, on the picture of Ellen that he had posted there.  
  
HAVE YOU SEEN ME?  
  
He noted that someone had just posted on his discussion board.  
  
Seeker.  
  
#  
  
Edward --  
  
I saw the picture of your daughter yesterday and I wanted to tell you that I am praying for her, and for you and your family. I hope you won't find it presumptuous of me, but I printed up her picture from your webpage and have posted copies of it where I work and in some nearby stores and such. I know that you and I have differed on a lot of things, but to me our debates pale in importance to the well-being of a child.  
  
I will keep you in my heart, and in the light.  
  
#  
  
Edward tensed, trying to breathe. Enemies of God. But what was an enemy anymore? When Muslims and atheists and who knows who else joined in the search for his daughter, where were the enemies? They had rejected Christ, his kingdom. God would punish them, eternally. Their good deeds on his behalf would count for nothing in the final judgment.  
  
They would burn in the lake of fire.  
  
For a moment, a brief moment, Edward Shaw stared at Seeker's words on his computer screen. And for that brief moment he pictured heaven and pictured himself looking down at the fire below and there pictured the Imam, pictured Seeker, suffering for eternity, and his stomach clenched. When he had recovered his composure he typed a quick response and posted it.  
  
#  
  
Seeker. Thank you, and God bless you.  
  
#  
  
He got some work done, met a deadline for an important client. When the day ended he climbed into his car and drove home, maneuvering slowly past the three police cars parked in front of the house across the street, blinking as he watched their emergency lights flicker in the late spring afternoon. 


	64. Evidence

Evidence  
  
* * *  
  
She hadn't seen them arrive. There were no sirens, no high speed screeching of tires as they pulled up to the house. Indeed, had it not been for Barry, romping about the living room with his Crusader of the Lord toy set, she might have missed their arrival entirely.  
  
"Mommy, there's policemen across the street."  
  
There was one, of course -- Kevin. It was good to have him there, another set of eyes watching their children. Or it should have been, had been.  
  
Before.  
  
Twins. One little girl, then another. She had wondered at first if they were going to be identical, if little Samantha and little Ellen were going to play tricks on her that way. But they weren't; that had been clear from the beginning, even as she had held her two daughters to her breast there in the hospital and had seen that Ellen had a lock of dark hair and Samantha did not. And she remembered looking up at Edward, there beside her bed, and bursting into tears over the wonder of it all, the gift of two lives that God had given them.  
  
Two lives.  
  
She's still alive, Rebecca told herself again and again. My beautiful daughter is still alive. It was an old refrain recently renewed, uttered now with more conviction, demanding that by its utterance it be true.  
  
And I will help her sister, her twin, as she deals with this. I will be strong. I will be a good mother, a good Christian mother.  
  
But sometimes Rebecca just wanted Samantha to be quiet. Sometimes Rebecca wanted her to keep her fears to herself.  
  
What if someone has her, Mom? What if someone is hurting her?  
  
Because people, dirty, wicked people, did sometimes hurt innocent girls. They did. They took them and they hurt them and they did things to them.  
  
And the thought of this wouldn't go away, no matter how hard Rebecca tried to banish it.  
  
#  
  
"Mommy?"  
  
She stopped what she was doing, smiled down at Barry.  
  
"Yes, dear?"  
  
"There's policemen outside. Across the street."  
  
"That's just Kevin, dear. You know Kevin."  
  
Barry shook his head. "No, there's more of them. Lots of them."  
  
Rebecca went with him to the living room window. By now the squad cars were parked in front of the house, one blocking the driveway, and there were several officers on the front lawn. As she watched, Rebecca saw two more policemen emerge from the front door, a man walking between them, his hands crossed behind his back.  
  
She recognized him, tried to remember his name. He had said hello at that barbecue at the Camdens' all those months ago.  
  
The man was guided into a squad car as Rebecca moved to her own front door and opened it, holding Barry's hand as she stepped outside. She sensed as Franklin moved up beside her.  
  
"What's going on, Mom?" he asked.  
  
"I don't know," she said.  
  
The squad car drove away. Now there were only three, emergency lights flickering.  
  
#  
  
She thought about calling Edward, glanced at her watch and decided against it. He would be home soon anyway. Instead she simply stood, telling Franklin to tell Samantha to finish cooking dinner. He stepped away to do this, and moments passed before he returned. A few moments after this, Edward's Lexus pulled into the driveway. As he opened the car door and emerged, Rebecca stepped to him.  
  
"What's going on?" he asked.  
  
"I don't know," she told him. "They took one of the men who lives there away."  
  
Edward nodded. Rebecca felt better, having him here. He was her pillar, the model of a good husband. He led the family and you could count on him, always. Even with the difficult things, you could count on him.  
  
Even when he was in agony.  
  
Edward reached for Barry's hand now, held it as they watched. Franklin had reappeared, explaining softly that Samantha was in the kitchen and that Virginia was helping her and that dinner would be ready soon. Edward said nothing, only nodded.  
  
It was then that they recognized Kevin, emerging from the house with another officer, a slender, blonde woman.  
  
Kevin stepped across the street to them, a bag in his hand.  
  
Rebecca felt herself tense without knowing why.  
  
"Ed," Kevin said.  
  
"Kevin."  
  
Kevin looked at Franklin, at Barry. "Perhaps Rebecca could take the children inside?" he asked.  
  
Edward looked at his sons, then at her. Without thinking she had taken his free hand in hers and now held to it tightly. Edward spoke.  
  
"Franklin, take Barry inside and close the door. We'll be in shortly."  
  
Franklin hesitated, his eyes on his father. Then he nodded and took Barry's hand.  
  
"Yes, Sir," he said.  
  
As the door closed Kevin looked at the bench that sat on the front porch, indicated it with his hand.  
  
"Please, let's sit."  
  
They did.  
  
"What's this about?" Edward asked.  
  
Kevin sighed. "We got an anonymous tip," he said. "About Ellen. It came in a few hours ago and we acted right away."  
  
"What?" Rebecca breathed. "What was it?"  
  
Kevin's gaze remained locked on Edward, his expression wooden and professional. "The tipster said they had seen your neighbor Mr. Boone with Ellen the morning she disappeared."  
  
Rebecca felt her heart racing, her stomach suddenly tight. Larry Boone. That was his name, the man they had led away. Living right across the street, right next door to the Camdens, to Kevin himself. Was he -- ?  
  
No. Don't even think it.  
  
"Kevin ...." Edward, began, but he grew silent.  
  
"We got a warrant as quickly as we could," Kevin said. "We're still going through the house. But there's something we found, something I need to show you."  
  
They didn't speak as Kevin opened the bag he held, pulled out another. This one was clear plastic, the word "evidence" stamped in red across it.  
  
"These were in the garage," Kevin said. "Do you recognize them?"  
  
Rebecca heard herself whimper, blinking as the tears rose without warning.  
  
"Oh, my God," she moaned.  
  
They were light pink, and cotton, and just a bit of the elastic waistband was visible. Familiar with the memory of Samantha and Ellen coming to her, ten years old then, and announcing together that they didn't mind sharing their dresses -- they were twins, after all -- but they each wanted their own underwear. This had made sense and Rebecca had agreed, and so since then had always embroidered the first initial of their names on each new pair of panties she bought for them, on each of their bras.  
  
"Oh, God ...." she moaned again, and her hand went out, her finger just touching the clear plastic, just feeling through it the small, delicate, familiar "E" stitched into the fabric below. 


	65. Heavy

Heavy  
  
* * *  
  
The weight was still there. It had been there, unspoken, quiet, deep inside for these months, these months since it had first settled that night. She remembered it clearly, like reality was made up of the time before and the time after, that one event being all, meaning all. No one knew of the weight -- she had never mentioned it -- but its effects now were clear, sharp, stark. It blotted out pain, blotted out fear. It had only one direction and she had followed this, each step, each risk. She remembered the look on Simon Camden's face as she threatened him, knowing that her threats were convincing because she knew that they were real.  
  
I will kill you, Simon Camden, if this goes wrong.  
  
If she is not safe.  
  
It was night now, in the Shaw house. None of them was sleeping and for the longest time none of them had been able to even try. And she sensed, in her mother and father and sister and two brothers, the pain, the agony of this afternoon. It had been there, in them, eating away like a worm inside, merciless. She felt it too, through the weight, through the uncertainty.  
  
As well, she had sensed it in Eric Camden, who had come with his wife, with his children, to help her family in this time of deepest need. Lucy had found her, as she had been doing since Ellen had gone, had found her and talked to her, or had tried. Lucy was different now, Samantha sensed, a different person, a different girl. More the girl who had built homes for the homeless, who had once had interests and goals and dreams that were more than men.  
  
And this was good.  
  
But tonight, even Lucy had been unable to find the words to speak. What words are there, that can be said at this time? What words would you have, gentle reader, to say to a family like the Shaws, a family in their place?  
  
Even Eric Camden was silent.  
  
Unusually silent. He only spoke when leading them in prayer.  
  
God, grant us your mercy.  
  
Grant us hope.  
  
Grant us the strength we need.  
  
And Simon there, sitting as he was supposed to sit, looking at her from time to time, his eyes a mixture of uncertainty and terror as he watched her, as he waited for her to take revenge on him.  
  
But the weight did not press that way. Not tonight, anyway.  
  
But she knew it would soon.  
  
#  
  
It was late. She had changed for bed and now stood before it. Outside her room, dark vengeance flowed, unrecognized for what it was but real nonetheless. And Samantha stood, looking down at her bed, then over at her sister's, and she knew what all those who seek vengeance eventually come to know, that in the end it has its price, a price that must be paid.  
  
But as well, Samantha saw, it is sometimes inevitable. Sometimes vengeance will not be denied, not by any force in the universe. In its inevitability it has its own life, its own direction, the weight of it taking control.  
  
She sat. Not on her own bed but on Ellen's. Her hand went down, caressed gently at the bedcovers, at the pillow.  
  
And not knowing why, Samantha Shaw lowered her face into her hands and began to weep. 


	66. We Have Ways

We Have Ways  
  
* * *  
  
Say what you might, but one thing was true. Kinkirk got the confessions.  
  
Maybe this was something instinctive in the man, Detective Michaels thought. Some way of reading a suspect, of knowing even better than they did what they were thinking. Knowing when and how they would lie, and catching them in these lies.  
  
Maybe.  
  
But he still had uncertainties about Kinkirk, Michaels did. Not anything he could put his finger on, but just a gut feeling about him that wasn't good. Why had the Buffalo PD been so willing to approve the transfer? Yes, there was all that talk about how much Kinkirk loved Lucy Camden, talk supported by the way Michaels regularly had to interrupt the gossiping Kinkirk did with his partner in the station while they were supposed to be working.  
  
Of course, this was Glenoak, and gossiping about the Camdens was virtually the national sport here.  
  
And love could make you do some wacky things. Michaels remembered courting his wife, and smiled.  
  
Well, ex-wife now.  
  
Anyhow, Kinkirk. Maybe it was wrong, a bad idea to let him interrogate Larry Boone. Because Kinkirk was a neighbor, and you could say he was too close to the case, to the victim's family. But as well this was the first and only break in the Shaw girl's disappearance, and if Boone was a predator, Michaels knew that in a town like Glenoak the release of such a man back into the community could cost a lot of elected officials their careers.  
  
So he had to use his best man, and his best man was Kevin Kinkirk.  
  
Michaels sighed and stepped into the interrogation room.  
  
#  
  
Boone had a lawyer, some woman in a suit who sat beside him as Kevin let himself in. Michaels was already there; that figured. It would have been better, of course, if the good detective had done his job and kept the woman away on a technicality or something, so that Kevin could be alone with the suspect. It was always easier that way, and it was surprising how often you could get away with it, since a lot of perps didn't pay attention when you babbled that Miranda crap to them.  
  
At least Boone looked scared. That was good. He was in jail clothes and it was a pretty good bet that he hadn't slept last night. Kevin had seen to it that he had been put into the general lockup instead of isolation, and had seen to it as well that whispers about what Boone had done were circulated among the prisoners. Back in Buffalo, which was bigger than Glenoak, this would have led to at least a few beatings for Mr. Boone, since there were always violent offenders of one sort or another in the jails there, and guys like Boone were popular targets. This being Glenoak, though, the nightly jail crowd had been mostly a few potheads, the smoking of pot being a vast and unexplained epidemic in Glenoak, and some rowdy fraternity boys from Crawford. The result had been not a beating but a sleepless night for Boone, who was clearly terrified of jail, having never been in one before.  
  
Wait till you get to prison, Larry-boy. A beating will be the least of your worries.  
  
Kevin sat. The video camera was running, and he turned on his little tape recorder.  
  
"All right. Anything you have to say, Mr. Boone?"  
  
Boone's gaze was down.  
  
"I didn't do anything."  
  
"Really? We have a witness who places you with the girl the morning she disappeared."  
  
"I never saw her."  
  
"Where were you that morning, Mr. Boone?"  
  
"At home."  
  
"So we agree about that."  
  
Boone looked up, then at his lawyer. Kevin spoke again.  
  
"What did you do that morning, Mr. Boone?"  
  
"I work afternoons and evenings," Boone said. "I like to sleep in."  
  
Kevin nodded, leaned back in his chair. "We talked to Tom. You know, your housemate. He was at work and has an alibi, at least for that morning. But you two had a lot of time, and it only takes one grown man to grab a girl, doesn't it?"  
  
"I didn't do anything!"  
  
Kevin looked at Michaels, who was watching to proceedings quietly. Then he turned back to the suspect.  
  
"We found some interesting things in your house, and on the hard drive of your computer. You like pictures of pretty girls, don't you, Larry?"  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"Oh, Playboy, maybe? Girls in their undies, and naked. Turns you on, doesn't it?"  
  
Boone went red. His lawyer spoke.  
  
"Those materials are images of adults and are perfectly legal, Mr. Kinkirk. Is there a point to this?"  
  
Kevin looked at the woman. She was too heavy to be worth much; wasn't much of a looker. His expression didn't change.  
  
"How about your hard drive, Larry? You like going on the internet?"  
  
"My client admits that he downloads pictures from the Victoria's Secret webpage. I ask you again: Is there a point to this? Are you going to file copyright violation charges against him? You searched his house for that?"  
  
Bitch. It was clear that Boone had been coached. But Kevin smiled now, reaching into the bag he had brought with him and tossing the smaller bag inside onto the table.  
  
"No. We searched his house and found THIS."  
  
Boone paled.  
  
"What's that, Mr. Boone?" Kevin asked.  
  
Boone said nothing.  
  
"Tongue tied? Well, let me fill you in. It's a pair of panties. Pan-tees. Girls wear them. Girls like Ellen Shaw. We found these in your garage. Care to illuminate us on how they got there, Larry?"  
  
Boone shook his head. "I don't know. I've never seen them before."  
  
"Haven't you? Her mother ID'd them as Ellen Shaw's." Kevin stabbed at the bag with a finger. "See there? Her mother had embroidered them with her initial. You know what I think, Larry?"  
  
Boone stared down at the evidence bag. He was still pale. His lawyer watched Kevin closely.  
  
"I think you were awake that morning, Larry. Maybe you couldn't sleep. Maybe pictures from Playboy and Victoria's Secret weren't enough anymore. So you took a look outside, and there was the neighbor girl, come outside for a breath of fresh air. She wasn't feeling well, was she? Stomachache. So you told her you had some special medicine, and you invited her into your house. What happened then, Larry? What did you do to her then?"  
  
Boone shook his head. "I didn't do anything! I didn't take that girl!"  
  
Kevin stood, his voice exploding suddenly.  
  
"Oh? Then how did a pair of her PAN-TEES get into your garage, Larry?" He reached for the evidence bag and shook it at Boone. "This your idea of a trophy? You like PAN-TEES? You got a thing for that?"  
  
Boone was crumbling. Kevin could see it, and he felt the rush that always came, just before they started babbling and begging and crying, knowing that he had won, that he had broken them. This would settle the Ellen Shaw thing, would put it to rest. Boone would probably get the chair, or lethal injection, and Ed and Rebecca would have their vengeance, and they would know that it was his doing. Samantha would grieve, but there would be no reason for Lucy to spend time with her anymore, and Lucy would come back to Kevin and things would be all right again.  
  
Oh, the things that Camden girl was going to do for him on their wedding night.  
  
"No ...." Boone said. "I didn't. I swear to God I didn't do it."  
  
"Then why were her PAN-TEES in your garage, Larry? You still haven't explained that to me! Why do we have a witness who says you took her into your house?"  
  
Boone had brought his handcuffed hands to his face and was sobbing.  
  
"I didn't do it! I didn't!"  
  
Kevin reached out and pulled the man's hands away from his face, shaking the evidence bag at him.  
  
"I think you did, Larry!"  
  
"That's enough!" Boone's lawyer bellowed. She had quite a voice for a woman, Kevin reflected. "My client has nothing more to say!"  
  
Michaels was there now too, pulling Kevin back.  
  
"Kinkirk! That's enough!"  
  
Kevin growled, glaring at Boone. Then he threw the evidence bag to the table and stalked from the room. 


	67. Gotta Get Away

Gotta Get Away  
  
* * *  
  
He had to run. Run away, get away. Because this was all out of control, the world gone mad. Morris had promised, had promised him it would be all right, that he would take care of things. And Samantha had promised him, too, that if this didn't work, that if anything went wrong, that she would come after him with a gun.  
  
Then she would claim that she had cracked, because he had raped her.  
  
She had evidence. She was crazy enough to keep evidence.  
  
And if she didn't kill him, her father would.  
  
Simon Camden had to run, and run far.  
  
How far would be enough?  
  
She watched him, Samantha did, as Mom and Dad dragged the whole family across the street to help the Shaws. They were in shock over there; a neighbor had taken their daughter, had taken her away. The police had evidence, a tipster, a witness. That's what Michaels had told Dad, and what the nightly news reported as well.  
  
"The disappearance of Ellen Shaw, which has gripped the town of Glenoak in this past week, took a surprising turn yesterday with the arrest of a suspect. Larry Boone, a neighbor of the Shaw family, is being held without bail at the Glenoak detention center. In a statement made through his attorney, Boone is maintaining his innocence."  
  
It was quiet in the Shaw house, that night. After a while Lucy, Simon, Ruthie and the twins were sent home to sleep, while Matt and Mom and Dad stayed. Simon had noted Samantha's gaze on him as he left.  
  
When would she come for him?  
  
#  
  
Tell Dad, he thought to himself. Just go to him and tell him what you did with Samantha and what you did with Morris and Ellen. Just tell him and let him help. He's always talking about helping, about how he helps others, right?  
  
Others. Other families. Other kids.  
  
But not his own.  
  
No, with his own the standard was higher. The expectations were higher for Camden kids. And you helped Ellen run away. You ... touched Samantha. And the thing with Morris; what would Dad do if he found out about Morris?  
  
No. Dad's a Minister. You're just trouble. And if you tell him, he'll tell Mom. He always does. And she's scary anymore.  
  
You can't say anything. You say anything, Simon, and you lose.  
  
Simon shoved his hands deeply into his pockets as Lucy opened the front door and led them inside.  
  
#  
  
Ruthie and the twins went to bed without protesting, but Lucy seemed hesitant.  
  
"I should be over there," she said softly.  
  
Simon was in his room now, sitting on his bed. Lucy had appeared at his doorway.  
  
"What do you mean?" he asked.  
  
"I want to be a Minister. I shouldn't be here. I should be helping. Samantha -- it's her twin, Simon. She's hurting. She needs support."  
  
Simon coughed suddenly. "You could go back," he offered.  
  
Lucy shook her head. "It would be awkward, coming and going like that. It wouldn't feel right. But I'm worried about Dad, too. His heart -- this is too much. He needs to rest."  
  
"Tell Mom that."  
  
Lucy went silent. They had both seen it, the way their mother kept talking about church, about how Dad would be back there soon, doing what he did, ministering. But there was something different about Dad these days. He was in his office a lot, but when they went in for something he was never reading his Bible. Instead he would have headphones on, plugged into the small boom-box on his desk, and would be humming some old tune or another.  
  
Lucy sat. "God, I don't know anymore, Simon. It's like the whole world is going insane."  
  
Simon nodded. Lucy looked over at him. "Can I tell you something in confidence?" she asked him.  
  
"Sure."  
  
"I mean it, Simon. This goes no further than us."  
  
"You'd better check the door for Ruthie, then," Simon said.  
  
There was a time when Lucy would have smiled at this, would have found it funny. Now she did not. Instead she checked the door, closed it and locked it, then returned to him and spoke in a whisper.  
  
"It's Kevin. He's different, or I'm different. I don't know."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
Lucy reached up and rubbed her brow. "I don't know," she said again. "He talks about what we're going to do, where we're going to go. It used to be that this didn't bother me. But he never asks what I want anymore, Simon. Ever since I postponed our wedding it's like he does all the talking when we're together."  
  
"I thought you liked men who took charge."  
  
"I thought I did. Simon, I just don't know anymore. I feel like I can help people like Samantha, or I can be Kevin's wife, but not both. Aren't I supposed to be able to do both?"  
  
At the mention of Samantha Simon froze. Finally he mumbled, "I guess so. What are you going to do, Luce?"  
  
She shrugged, lowered her head into her hands.  
  
"Right now I have to help. It's what I need. I need to feel like more than just someone's girlfriend, just someone's fiancée."  
  
Simon nodded and sighed. Lucy had been so distant since she met Kevin. Simon hadn't really noticed it before; his own life had been too complicated. For a moment he entertained a fantasy of just him and Lucy, hitting the road, getting away from Glenoak.  
  
Away from here.  
  
He had to get away from here. 


	68. Secrets

Secrets  
  
* * *  
  
And morning came despite doubt, and another. Through Kevin they learned that Larry Boone's lawyer had insisted that her client be placed in isolation for his own safety. He was still insisting that he was innocent, and he was refusing to talk any further with the police.  
  
Larry Boone.  
  
He had always seemed like a good guy, a good neighbor. He had paid Simon to mow his lawn, had even let him use his good lawnmower for his own chores. And yet he was a monster, there in their neighborhood all this time. Michaels was running a complete history of the man, and of his friend Tom. Were there other unsolved cases, other missing girls?  
  
Missing boys?  
  
Oh, God.  
  
Simon.  
  
Eric tried to relax. This wasn't easy, and he had visions of his heart, giving out one last time, of there not being an Ellen Shaw there for him. He listened to Elvis a lot and it helped, the King's voice soothing him.  
  
You do your best, Eric. YOU are the light and the truth and the way.  
  
Simon.  
  
There was something, Eric knew. Something deep in his second son, something frightening. It was hard for Eric to concentrate on that just now, because he was always over at the Shaws', Annie always there with him, trying to be, if not helpful, at least harmless.  
  
But it was hard to look at Edward Shaw, hard to look at Rebecca. And their kids; Samantha, beautiful but silent, Franklin, watching him with suspicion, Virginia and Barry just trying to understand. And as he looked at Edward, the thought kept coming to Eric: have you hit them? Have you done to them what you did to Ellen, to your own child? Did her fear of you drive her into the hands of Larry Boone?  
  
Annie spoke of them, not knowing.  
  
"Those poor people. But there's a silver lining, isn't there, Eric? God means for you to get back to your church, to your calling. This isn't the way I would ever want that message to be sent to you, but there it is. It's so good to see you comfort them; they were such a pillar for us when you were sick."  
  
He said nothing, only watched her.  
  
What happened to you, Annie? he thought. How could you think that the loss of a child could be God's way of sending me a message?  
  
Finally, the exhaustion he felt not being a thing he had to invent, Eric told her to go to the Shaws' alone, that he needed his rest.  
  
She looked at him, her gaze almost a glare, and went.  
  
Eric retreated to his office.  
  
#  
  
You ain't nothin' but a hound dog,  
  
Cryin' all the time.  
  
You ain't never caught a rabbit and you ain't no friend of mine.  
  
#  
  
That was when Simon passed before the door on his way to the kitchen.  
  
"Son?"  
  
Simon turned, saw him.  
  
"Yeah, Dad?"  
  
"You got a minute?"  
  
Simon looked uncomfortable. "I've got some homework."  
  
"I think it can wait."  
  
Simon sighed and stepped into the office.  
  
"Close the door," Eric said.  
  
His son looked at him, obeyed. He sat down without being told to.  
  
"What is it, Dad?"  
  
Eric watched him. This was a tricky thing, in counseling, very tricky. It wasn't the usual teen angst, the usual pain that comes from growing up. Some therapists used a doll.  
  
"You've heard what they're saying about Larry Boone," Eric said.  
  
Simon nodded, his expression guarded.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"You know that whatever you tell me, it'll stay here. I promise you that."  
  
Simon watched him, said nothing.  
  
"Son, did Larry ever ... do anything he shouldn't have with you?"  
  
"What?"  
  
Eric cleared his throat. Remember your heart, he told himself.  
  
Never mind my heart. I couldn't help Ellen Shaw, but I'll damn well help my own son.  
  
"Did he touch you? Make you do things?"  
  
Now Simon made a face. "Like what, Dad? Are you asking if he raped me?"  
  
The bluntness of the word came as a shock. Your heart ... remember your heart. Eric spoke slowly.  
  
"Did he?"  
  
Simon jumped to his feet. "Christ, Dad! No! I've never .... He never .... Oh, God, I can't believe you!"  
  
"Simon --"  
  
But Simon was out the door.  
  
And Eric knew. 


	69. The Kiss

The Kiss  
  
* * *  
  
Let us now, gentle reader, consider love. What is love?. How may it be measured? Is the belt of Edward Shaw, falling against the body of his daughter to save her from an eternity of damnation, is this love? Is Lucy, blind with desire and a need to bond and be a wife and a lover, is this? Is it Samantha, betraying all for her sister? Is it Annie and her fetish for the role of a preacher's wife?  
  
Do we know? Can we? Is love so sure, so certain, that we may condone someone getting married on their first date? Is it so important that we should surrender all our other hopes, our other dreams, because it does not meet our expectations?  
  
Perhaps. But love is many things. It is not merely the love of family, or the love of a man for a woman or a woman for a man. It is, rather, a myriad of wants and needs and expressions, and these are and will always be confusing to those in love and those not so. Love is not a thing you can define but it is a thing you cannot fail to recognize.  
  
So let us consider love.  
  
Simon loved. He did not know why, but why is not a question that love lets us answer. He loved his parents, his siblings. They were maddening, irrational, even insane, but he loved them even when he denied it. And to them this was all the love he needed, all the love he should have. For this love they had kept him isolated, alone, had kept all other forms of love away. And they thought, they really did, that they had succeeded.  
  
But they had not.  
  
For Simon Camden loved.  
  
And Simon Camden was loved in return.  
  
Let us consider.  
  
#  
  
Morris.  
  
Morris, you see, had kissed him.  
  
Now, we must understand this. This was not a simple kiss on the cheek between good friends. This was not a silly joke done with laughter. No, this was a kiss, profound and deep and meaningful. It had happened almost by accident. They had gone to a party together, had each drunk a little more than was perhaps wise, but Morris was still wise enough to know that he should wait before driving, and so they had sat together, just sitting in Morris' Jeep, in the cool night.  
  
And as friends are wont to do, they had talked.  
  
And Morris had said:  
  
"You ever wonder about life, Camden?"  
  
Simon shrugged.  
  
"Sure."  
  
"You ever think about maybe just going for it? Like, just saying to hell with all the rules, just living for right now?"  
  
"Sure," Simon said again. "Like how?"  
  
"Like when you really, really think you like someone, but you don't know what to do. Like you know that if you do anything, if you do what you know you really want to do, the whole world's gonna come crashing down, but you can't stop how you feel?"  
  
This Simon could relate to, and he nodded.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Yeah.  
  
And then Morris was there.  
  
It happened suddenly, quite unexpectedly. Morris leaning toward him, close, and then his lips, warm and moist, against Simon's, and Simon hesitating, confused, and then pushing Morris away forcefully.  
  
"What the hell are you doing, man?"  
  
Morris, suddenly red, beet red, even in the dim light of the Jeep.  
  
"Oh, God, I'm sorry, Camden. I thought, maybe ...."  
  
The word had come immediately to Simon, brought on by years of repetition, by years of quiet, unspoken hostility in his church and in his world.  
  
Faggot.  
  
An easy word to say, until you mean it.  
  
Then it becomes a test of who you really are.  
  
Morris, then. "Oh, Jesus, man, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have. I just don't know anymore. God, I'm a jerk. I'm a faggot dick jerk."  
  
Faggot.  
  
Maybe it was hearing Morris say it, that word of hate, about himself. Maybe it was that Simon had never had friends, and he saw in Morris a friend, despite the inappropriate kiss. Maybe it was that Simon had at some point learned to take the commandment of love thy neighbor more seriously than did his parents, than do so many of us.  
  
Maybe we should look at Simon with Claire as an example of just what kind of a boy Simon Camden really was, what kind of a man he was becoming, and then we will see, we will understand how it became between Simon and Morris after that.  
  
#  
  
Now, we must understand, as we return to the present, what this had grown to mean. Simon was heterosexual and that was that. He could not love Morris in the way Morris might have desired before the kiss. And Morris was gay, and that, too, was that. The kiss had cemented this reality more completely than any words ever could, but it was a shared thing, too, the kiss. It was a shared secret, a thing that Simon swore to his friend he would never tell. Morris was afraid, you see, and with good reason. Hatred of men like Morris is strong in America, fueled by fear, and Morris had lived with the knowledge of how he felt for many years.  
  
How he hated himself.  
  
Faggot dick jerk.  
  
"No," Simon said that fateful night. "Don't say that. Don't call yourself that, man."  
  
Morris was trembling.  
  
"Why not? It's true."  
  
"I say it isn't."  
  
Maybe it was the alcohol; Simon had drunk more than half a beer that night. But probably not, because when they talked alone the next day, both sober, Morris trembling and red with shame for the kiss, Simon had said the words that are love, that are the meaning of and definition of love.  
  
"I don't care, man. It isn't a big deal. You're my friend."  
  
Learn it, gentle reader. Know it. Live it.  
  
Simon and Morris had. 


	70. Long Distance

Long Distance  
  
* * *  
  
He got away. Just for a few hours, away from the house, the neighborhood. This reprieve was temporary, Simon knew, but he had to do it.  
  
He thought of his father, of Dad, of the look on his face, the look that said it all. Did he touch you, Simon? Did he make you do things?  
  
Larry Boone. Nice guy. He let me use his lawnmower. He paid me an honest wage for honest work. He's got family, friends, two sisters and a brother. And Tom. Tom's a good guy too. People probably think they're gay, because they live together in the same house, but those people wouldn't know gay if it kissed them on the lips.  
  
I speak from experience.  
  
And I know, Dad, what you don't, what Kevin and the cops don't.  
  
But I don't know how this happened. How did Ellen's underwear appear in Larry's garage? I can't believe that Larry would do anything like they're saying, and I know Morris wouldn't hurt her. Did she run away from Morris? He would have called me and told me if she had, wouldn't he?  
  
She's supposed to be with Morris. I know this. I can trust Morris. And I know Larry's innocent. Someone put those panties in his garage.  
  
But why? What would anyone gain by doing that?  
  
And I can't do anything about it.  
  
I just have to be sure. I have to be sure so I can tell Samantha.  
  
I have to.  
  
#  
  
At the mall there were telephones. His family didn't go to the mall much, not since that time Lucy and two of her friends had gotten all tarted up there and had been caught hitting on a mall security guard, so it should be safe. Simon had taken the bus, too, had left the car at home. They would wonder, in time, where he was -- they always did -- but he could come up with an appropriate lie to cover this up.  
  
Telephones.  
  
He had the number written down, hidden in his wallet. He didn't need it, of course, since Simon was good with numbers. He knew it by heart.  
  
Would Morris be home now?  
  
Simon jammed the coins in, dialed.  
  
A ring, another. For some reason he thought of Lily Tomlin. One ringy-dingy, two ringy-dingies ....  
  
A third.  
  
A voice.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Morris?"  
  
"Yeah. Camden, that you?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Thank God you called. How you doing, man? Good to hear from you."  
  
Simon smiled. It was good to hear the voice of his friend. "Listen," he said, "I've got to know. Ellen Shaw. Is she all right?"  
  
"She's fine. Staying with a friend of mine. He's a good guy. We're keeping her under cover, like you asked. We heard the news out of Glenoak. What's going on there? They think she was kidnapped?"  
  
"They found a pair of her underwear in a neighbor's garage. Morris --"  
  
"I don't know, Camden. I met her at the park, drove her here, dropped her off at my friend's place. She's been there ever since."  
  
Had it not been Morris, Simon might have suspected a lie. But this was Morris, his best and only friend. Yet still the words came.  
  
"You're sure about Ellen?" he said. "You're sure she's all right?"  
  
"Positive. I saw her yesterday. We've been hoping you would call. I was going to call you about her, but I remember that your family snoops on phone calls. Sorry; I should have called anyway. I know this is serious. But Simon, we can't let them find her. Her family --"  
  
"I know." Simon nodded and sighed.  
  
Morris' voice changed just a bit. "You said she was in trouble; my friend says you were right. But he's good, Camden. He helped me. Not as much as you did, but he helped me."  
  
Simon inhaled deeply, calming a bit. Morris spoke again.  
  
"What's going on, Camden? What is it?"  
  
Someone was using the drinking fountain by the phone. Simon waited until they left before speaking.  
  
"It's trouble, Morris. They think our neighbor killed her. Morris, her sister is seriously nuts. If anything happens to Ellen, she said she'd kill me, and I think she means it."  
  
"Samantha?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Ellen's talked about her some. They're tight. But Ellen's scared, too. She heard the news just like we did, but she doesn't know what to do. God, Camden, I've never seen someone scared the way she is. My parents hated me after I came out, but Ellen's folks ...."  
  
"Yeah. They've got the God thing bad."  
  
"She's a good girl, though. What you did was right, Camden. You know that, right? Even if her sister's crazy."  
  
Simon sighed again. It felt good to hear it. Morris heard the sigh and spoke.  
  
"You all right?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"What can I do, Camden? What do you want us to do?"  
  
Simon thought for a moment, added more coins to the phone.  
  
"Keep her safe, man. Just keep her safe. I've got to figure this all out." 


	71. Opportunity

Opportunity  
  
* * *  
  
It was the third night and her opportunity came. The constant presence of the Camdens in their home had slowed but not stopped, and for these three days and nights she had just watched him, her eyes betraying nothing, but he knew.  
  
He remembered.  
  
But there had been no chance to get him where she wanted him.  
  
Now there was.  
  
She had mentioned that she couldn't sleep in her room, that it was too hard to see Ellen's bed. In the beginning this had been a lie, something she had planned, but now it was true; the nightmares were too much to bear. Mom and Dad had gotten used to this and offered her their own as they had before, but then Lucy had volunteered her room, her home.  
  
"Maybe it'll help. And we can talk."  
  
Mom had smiled, thanking the Camden girl, and Samantha had agreed.  
  
"I don't want to be any trouble."  
  
"You won't be."  
  
Opportunity.  
  
She felt a bit bad, because she had promised him a gun. But Dad's collection was better protected than she had let on, and she had honestly never thought she would have reason to carry out her threat; never before had a boy betrayed her like this. And a knife, a big butcher knife like the one she saw in the Camden kitchen as she and Lucy got something to eat, would be better.  
  
It would take Simon Camden longer to die.  
  
She would paint his bedroom with his blood.  
  
Opportunity.  
  
She was sitting with Lucy when he got home. It was late afternoon by now and she heard his mother interrogate him as to where he had been, heard his tone and hers echoing up the back stairwell of the Camden house.  
  
The acoustics in this house were amazing; you could almost hear anything from anywhere.  
  
She would have to be quiet when she killed him.  
  
After the first cut it wouldn't matter, though. She'd make sure to get the jugular when she slit his throat. Then he could scream all he wanted.  
  
She heard him coming up the stairs. When Lucy had been rummaging through the refrigerator Samantha had slipped the knife into her overnight bag, where now it lay, wrapped in her nightgown, waiting.  
  
He passed by the stairs leading up to the attic where Lucy slept. She heard him move to his room.  
  
Lucy was talking.  
  
"Samantha, I want to thank you."  
  
"Thank me?"  
  
"You've done a lot for me. You've helped me think."  
  
"About what?"  
  
"About who I want to be. What kind of person. I'd forgotten."  
  
Samantha nodded.  
  
"Samantha ...." Lucy said.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"I want to help, if I can. I know I can't relate; it used to be in my family that we always claimed we could, but I know better. But I still want to help. I can listen, or talk, or whatever you need."  
  
Samantha nodded again. The weight was heavy on her, growing. Vengeance. She saw Simon's face, heard him cry out in her mind, imagined the feeling of the knife going in.  
  
The price would be paid.  
  
She wondered idly if it would stop the nightmares.  
  
#  
  
In time, she excused herself to go to the bathroom, picking up her bag and stepping down the stairs. It was quiet in the house, with the muted sounds of Ruthie and the twins in the living room watching television, the Reverend and his wife across the street with her own parents.  
  
Opportunity. Lucy would stay in the attic, would wait for her.  
  
His door was open and he looked up as Samantha stepped into his room. 


	72. Knocks

Knocks  
  
* * *  
  
"Samantha," he said.  
  
She nodded.  
  
He looked past her to see if she was alone. When he was satisfied she was he spoke again.  
  
"Close the door."  
  
Her face registered an instant of surprise. Slowly she obeyed, setting the lock.  
  
Simon turned on the small boom-box by his bed, and music filled the room. She took a step forward as he did, stopped in her place when he turned back to her.  
  
"We need to talk," he said.  
  
"Do we?"  
  
She set the bag she carried on the foot of his bed.  
  
"Yeah. And no bullshit this time. No threats."  
  
"All right," she said softly.  
  
Simon let out a sigh, almost long, almost sad, certainly tired. Her overnight bag was half open and he wondered why she was carrying it around. He reached up to stroke his hair back over his head. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her hand slip into the bag.  
  
"Samantha, we have to tell them she's alive."  
  
Her hand stopped, and she watched him.  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"This thing with Larry, it's wrong. I don't know how they fingered him, but it's wrong. We can't let them do this to him when we know he didn't do anything."  
  
Her voice became low. There was a chill to it as she spoke, her hand unmoving.  
  
"We? How do WE know, Simon? How do I know? How do I know that your friend didn't rape her and kill her? What did you do to my sister, Simon Camden?"  
  
Her eyes held him now, cold, cruel, and he saw the rage in them.  
  
"I told you," he said, his voice suddenly weak. "My friend Morris -- He --"  
  
"Your friend Morris. I sent my sister into the night alone to meet your friend Morris, and now they've found her underwear with your friend Larry. You swore to me that she'd be safe. I trusted you. That's what I know, Simon. That's all I know. I sent her away to save her and this is what you do? What did I tell you would happen if she wasn't all right, Simon? What did I promise you?"  
  
Simon shook his head, control slipping, the edge of terror so close as realization came. His gaze shot to her hand, to her bag. A plea rose up in him but he knew even as it did that it would do no good. There was no mercy in this one.  
  
"Samantha, wait. Please."  
  
Her hand moved inside her bag and he tensed. A gun, she had said. Her father had guns and she would bring one. She wouldn't even have to pull it out of the bag to kill him.  
  
"No more waiting. I've waited long enough. Did you get a piece of her, Simon? Was that part of your plan all along?"  
  
"God, no!"  
  
She stepped forward, hand still inside her bag, and he drew back.  
  
"Samantha, I swear to God she's alive. No one's touched her."  
  
"Then how did her panties wind up in your friend's garage? Did she struggle when you pulled them off her?"  
  
Another step. He inhaled to scream, but his fear cut it off.  
  
"I swear to God, Samantha. No one touched her. I swear to God she's all right."  
  
Samantha's face, her beautiful, perfect face, was cold.  
  
"Not good enough."  
  
And her hand emerged from the bag, the metal blade catching the light from the lamp on his desk.  
  
No mercy.  
  
He was on his feet now, facing her, the wall behind him. The thought flashed before him suddenly that he was bigger than she was, that he could wrestle with her, that maybe he could get the knife away.  
  
And she would cry rape and they would believe her. She would tell all that he had done, and the police would find Ellen with Morris, and ....  
  
The voice came then, his own but almost like it was not. Words, too, spoken as though by another, not by him at all.  
  
There was only one way out, he knew suddenly. He heard his voice grow firm as it spoke.  
  
"And what did I promise you, Samantha? You think I lied? You think I set her up? You think that's what I am?"  
  
She hesitated at his tone, the knife close, watching.  
  
"Come on then, Samantha Shaw. Before you and I go to Hell together there's someone you need to talk to." 


	73. Pink Panties

Pink Panties  
  
* * *  
  
Larry Boone was demoted, or promoted, depending on your point of view, from prime suspect to person of interest a week after his arrest, and he was released with instructions not to leave Glenoak, which to many could itself be considered a harsh sentence and a violation of his civil rights under the eighth amendment to the constitution of the United States. But he did return to his house, where his friend Tom had been trying to put things back in order after the extensive police search.  
  
Ellen Shaw's pink panties, of course, remained in police custody, protected in their plastic bag in the evidence locker, and it may safely be said that of all the panties in Glenoak, these were the most secure.  
  
Less secure was Detective Michaels, who had gone before reporters and announced that the Glenoak police department was releasing the now-infamous Larry Boone and that the investigation had hit a snag. Kevin and Roxanne were just coming in from their shift when they saw Larry and his lawyer and several reporters outside the police station.  
  
"Any comments, Mr. Boone?"  
  
"Did you kill that girl?"  
  
But the lawyer, showing a surprising amount of strength for a woman who Kevin thought was pudgy, merely led her client through the assortment of microphones and cameras.  
  
"My client has no comment. Excuse us."  
  
Kevin made a move toward the crowd, felt Roxanne's hand on his arm.  
  
"Leave it, Kinkirk," she said.  
  
Kevin turned to her.  
  
"They're letting HIM go?"  
  
They went inside, Roxanne being easily as strong as Boone's lawyer, and there Kevin found himself facing Detective Michaels.  
  
"What the hell is this? That man is a pedophile! He's a predator!"  
  
Michaels matched Kevin's stare.  
  
"Maybe."  
  
"Maybe?" Kevin growled. This was wrong, all wrong. Boone was guilty, guilty enough, anyway. This was supposed to close the door on this whole Ellen Shaw thing, was supposed to get things back to normal. "What the hell do you mean by maybe?"  
  
Michaels produced a folder. "Forensics came back on the underwear. They were looking for semen, but found nothing."  
  
"Nothing?"  
  
"Nothing. The underwear isn't solid enough evidence."  
  
"What the hell do you mean? They're her panties!"  
  
"And they're clean." Michaels pushed the folder into Kevin's hands. "Really clean. When you wear underwear, even for a little while, it gets dirty. That's human biology. These had been recently laundered, and according to the lab, there's no evidence whatsoever that they had been worn since they were last washed. You can say what you want about the Shaws, but they're obviously serious about their laundry."  
  
"But the panties were in his goddamn garage! How did they get there, then? Maybe HE washed them! Did you think about that?"  
  
"Forensics identified the brand of detergent from traces. It's the type the Shaws use, but not Boone. We checked his house again."  
  
"You can still hold him."  
  
"Not according to the DA. We've got an anonymous tipster who hasn't come forward, and we've got a piece of evidence that might or might not connect Ellen Shaw with Boone's garage. There's no evidence he ever even touched the underwear. It's not enough for an indictment."  
  
"That's bullshit!"  
  
Beside him, Kevin felt Roxanne tense. Michaels merely stared him in the eye.  
  
"Kinkirk, you cool down, you understand? I know you're close to the Shaws, but you follow the rules. You got that?"  
  
Kevin's fists were tight. He could hit him, could knock this stupid nigger cop Michaels on his ass, teach him a thing or two. But that would mean a suspension, maybe worse. No, the trick was to prove him wrong. Find Ellen Shaw, that's what he had to do. And then connect Boone to her, somehow. Somehow those panties had found their way into Boone's garage, and somewhere out there someone had seen Ellen Shaw with him. Once Kevin found out who, he'd have them. Then Michaels would have to eat crow and the town would want his head for letting Boone out.  
  
Kevin nodded slowly. It would all come together. He just had to crack this case.  
  
"All right," he said. "Sorry I popped off. I just really hate men who hurt women, that's all."  
  
Michaels nodded and stepped away.  
  
----------------  
  
Author's note: Chapter 2 of Ellen's adventures has been posted over at: http://www.fictionpress.com/read.php?storyid=1450439 


	74. Wrath and Death

Wrath and Death  
  
* * *  
  
Lucy had asked, when much later that evening Simon and Samantha had pulled back into the driveway, where they had gone. Samantha had not spoken, had in fact said nothing, had merely made the climb back up the stairs to the attic, and so Lucy had turned to him instead.  
  
"Where did you go with her?"  
  
Simon watched his sister.  
  
"She needed to get out. She wanted to feel the open air."  
  
"Simon, you know how her parents feel about her being with boys. You should have taken me along."  
  
"They approved of me taking her out before, Luce. It's all right. You know me. I'm 'Virgin Camden', remember?"  
  
Lucy chuckled. "I just wish you'd left a note or something. I was almost ready to call Kevin and have him go looking for you."  
  
"I'm glad you didn't."  
  
She nodded. "I should get up there. Hopefully Ruthie's still sleeping so she won't pester her. Poor thing; she looks like she was crying."  
  
"Yeah. She was. It's hard for her, Luce, you know?"  
  
"I know."  
  
Lucy had turned, then turned back to him, had hugged him. "I love you, Simon. I should say that more."  
  
He returned the hug.  
  
"Love you too, Luce."  
  
#  
  
Daytime now.  
  
Across the low fence that existed between their homes as a formality, Annie knew that Larry Boone was home. The lack of evidence that had freed him from jail had not freed him from suspicion, and suspicion was all that people needed in these cases.  
  
To be certain.  
  
It all made sense. Two men, living together. Not brothers, not family. Men, of course, were always to be held in some suspicion, because their lusts were dirty, forceful. It was men who were dangerous, men who committed crimes. They could be heeled, could be taught, could be kept in line, but only if you never let them wander. They needed purpose, meaning, to take their minds off their lusts.  
  
They needed God.  
  
Larry Boone, obviously, had no God. He was a monster.  
  
Annie sat now, in her kitchen, watching Sam and David play. They were beautiful, her children, but they were vulnerable too. They had to be protected, defended. For a moment she envisioned Larry Boone at the door, forcing his way in.  
  
Let him. I'll show him what a mother can do.  
  
They should let him alone in a room with Rebecca. That would settle it.  
  
Instead they let him go. What kind of a world do we live in where they let men like him go?  
  
Annie had placed the call to Detective Michaels herself, had demanded to know why. He had said something about evidence, or not having enough evidence, and Annie had suddenly been shouting.  
  
"You don't need evidence! There is a girl missing and you know he took her! You know he did things to her! Now you do your damn job or by God Eric and I will have every church and synagogue and mosque in this town on you, and you'll be lucky if you even find a job as a mall security guard when we're through with you! Do you hear me?"  
  
The noise had brought Ruthie, who watched her mother curiously, and Eric, who had reached for her and held her and apologized to Michaels before hanging up the phone. And it had been good, to have Eric there, his arms around her as she wept, because he was a Minister and she was his wife, and that meant that there was some meaning in the world, some at least.  
  
Some, but not enough. Because Annie knew that across the street, her friend Rebecca was facing and enduring a kind of hell she could only try to imagine.  
  
#  
  
Daytime.  
  
Quiet in the neighborhood, despite the brilliant Saturday of early Summer. Fear in the air, children kept inside. The nearby park stood empty.  
  
Simon had managed, after a bit of manipulation, to get alone with Samantha. Had she not nodded, Lucy never would have let it happen. Now they sat, he and Samantha, down in the basement. No one ever came down here, and no one knew they were down here now; Dad and Matt had taken Ruthie and the twins out for some ice cream, wanting to get them away from the atmosphere that had settled over the neighborhood.  
  
Now Samantha regarded him. Simon remembered her, remembered the drive, remembered stopping at the convenience store, dialing Morris on the pay phone there.  
  
I need her number, man.  
  
Sure. You all right?  
  
Fine. I need her number.  
  
Morris had given it, had told him to wait while he called ahead, and finally Simon had fed the phone again and dialed.  
  
A man's voice.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Hello. My name is Simon Camden. I'm a friend of Morris."  
  
The voice had a soft lilt, almost feminine, but not quite.  
  
"He's mentioned you. Did he give you this number, Simon?"  
  
"Yes. Is Ellen there?"  
  
A pause. "Who wants to know?"  
  
"Her sister Samantha. She's here. She needs to talk to her."  
  
"Hold on."  
  
Another pause, then the familiar voice.  
  
"Simon?"  
  
"Yeah. Here." Simon handed the phone to Samantha. She held it to her ear.  
  
"El?"  
  
A moment. Another, and another, and another. He handed her coins to keep the call going. And Samantha's voice seemed suddenly very small, seemed about to break. Are you all right, El? Is everything all right? God, I miss you. I love you, El. I love you. I was so scared for you ....  
  
And then the call had ended and Samantha hung up the phone. She turned, looked at him, and then she was in his arms, her face pressed against his chest, sobbing.  
  
#  
  
Alone. Now. In the basement.  
  
She was different, Simon sensed. Watching him differently. He spoke gently to her.  
  
"Samantha, we can't keep this a secret."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"It's not right. Look what happened with Larry."  
  
"They say he'll go free."  
  
"That's not good enough."  
  
"It has to be, Simon."  
  
Simon regarded her. There was still that grace he remembered, that poise. And beneath it something more. Cold, determined.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because if they know, Simon, they'll bring her home. They'll --"  
  
Her voice cut off, unable to find words.  
  
"They'll what?" he asked.  
  
"They'll do what they did before."  
  
"And that's worth sacrificing Larry? That's worth sacrificing my friend?"  
  
She nodded. "Yes. He'll live. She won't. Don't cross me on this, Simon."  
  
He sighed. "God, you must hate them," he said.  
  
"Sometimes."  
  
Her words were still cold and Simon shuddered. Hate. And love. They're both here, in this girl. Both so strong they can burn you, both so strong they can drive her to murder. He could still see her standing there, the knife in her hand, her eyes on him. She had kept it close as they drove, her eyes always watching, the point of the knife never wavering. If we hadn't reached Ellen, if she hadn't been home, what would Samantha have done?  
  
She spoke again now.  
  
"Do you know what it's like, Simon, to grow up in a family like mine?"  
  
He shrugged. "I'm a PK," he said. "I think so."  
  
"No. Your dad's a preacher, but he isn't God. My dad thinks he is. I'm a girl, Simon. Ellen is a girl. We were born to cook and to clean and to obey. Especially obey. Franklin is a year younger than we are but we still have to do whatever he tells us. Because he's a boy, Simon, and we're girls. He'll get college someday; we won't. Instead we'll have husbands, and they'll be just like our father, and we'll cook and clean and do whatever they tell us to do. I didn't ask for this, Simon, not for any of it. Neither did Ellen. All she did was dream and they beat her and beat her and made her pray until it nearly killed her."  
  
"But she's safe now," Simon said.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"So she can call, just tell your folks that she ran away. She doesn't have to come home."  
  
Samantha shook her head.  
  
"No. That's not enough."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
The air in the basement took on a sudden chill as Samantha spoke. "Because they have to pay, Simon," she said. "They have to suffer. It isn't just Ellen. It's Andrea, it's Virginia, it's me. They used to beat Andrea, just like they beat Ellen, until she couldn't stand it anymore and went away. I want my sister back. I want both of them back. I want to know that in four or five years it isn't going to be Virginia bent over my father's knee. So they have to pay, now. They have to wonder if Ellen is being tortured and raped, and they have to live with themselves for letting it happen. They have to hurt. It's the only way it can stop."  
  
Simon watched Samantha, watched her eyes. There was no threat from her now, not to him. One call to Ellen had earned her trust; he and Morris had done what they said they would do and had protected her. But Simon saw as well that this he could not change Samantha Shaw. There were too many years behind what she felt, too many times that she had been made to do what her parents demanded of her, too many times she had seen what she had seen. This wasn't rational and he had no reason to expect it to be.  
  
She would destroy him, would destroy Larry or anyone else, would destroy even herself before she could forgive.  
  
----------------  
  
Author's note: Chapter 3 of Ellen's adventures has been posted over at: http://www.fictionpress.com/read.php?storyid=1450439 


	75. And Envy Afterwards

And Envy Afterwards  
  
* * *  
  
It had been easy.  
  
Remarkably easy, in fact.  
  
Things were easy when you thought them through.  
  
This is not to say that she had planned for this, for any of it. The fact that it had made a much bigger splash than she had expected it would was an added bonus, and it was hard sometimes, watching the police come and go, watching the news, watching people react, was hard not to smile at their antics through it all.  
  
Thank heavens she was already forgiven for this, because she knew it was a very bad thing she had done.  
  
Simple. She had had the run of the Shaw house since Dad's heart attack, and it wasn't long before she was a fixture there. She liked the Shaws, liked Rebecca in particular, because Rebecca always talked about God and Christ and forgiveness. Then that day had come and Ellen had disappeared, and the idea had come to her, a little at a time, a little thought that, hey, this could work and it would be fun, because there was no doubt that it would get a reaction and she would have a front row seat to it all.  
  
And it was so simple.  
  
Matt had come home with a small bag of medical stuff. He had always had that medical thing, that idea he could be a doctor, and of course shortly after he arrived she had taken the opportunity to go through his bag, the way she always went through everything in the house, sooner or later. And there had been those latex gloves in there, the kind doctors wore when they poked you or stuck their fingers into your mouth during a dental exam.  
  
Easy. She took a pair. They'd look for evidence and it was important that they not find any, at least not any that called attention to her.  
  
Next, of course, was the real exciting part. Sitting with Virginia one afternoon, noting Samantha go down to the kitchen to help Rebecca start dinner. A few words, idly dropped.  
  
"I'm going to use the bathroom. I'll be right back."  
  
And up the stairs and down the hall and into Ellen and Samantha's room, and wow, how perfect was it that when she opened the first dresser drawer all the underwear in there was embroidered with an "S".  
  
And all the underwear in the other dresser with an "E".  
  
She had a freezer bag in her pocket with the gloves. Glove on, panties out, into the bag. Drawer closed, bag into her pocket, walk carefully out of the room and down to Virginia's room, slip the freezer bag into the bottom of her pack. The bathroom, then, since she had even timed it so she really did have to go, and then flushing the toilet and washing her hands and going back downstairs.  
  
Simple.  
  
And so perfect. Simon mowed Larry Boone's lawn. He had a key to the man's garage in his room and permission to use his lawnmower for the Camden lawn too. And because she had gone through things so often in Simon's room, she knew exactly where the key was.  
  
A day had passed, then another. Then Simon was out for a while, and she put on the gloves again -- she had grown to like them -- and took the key. Larry and Tom both worked in the afternoon and there was a way to get to their back yard without being seen from the street. Up to the door at the back of the garage, slipping the key in and opening the door, moving inside. It was neat in there; she checked the floor for dirt, making sure not to leave any tracks.  
  
No problem.  
  
A place, up on a shelf, behind some cans of paint. Shoving the panties there so it would look like they were hidden, but not well.  
  
Easy and out the door again. Key back to Simon's room.  
  
A day after that, stopping at the Promenade after school, going to the phone. Glove on, crumpled paper over the mouthpiece of the phone, making the call with a raspy voice quite different from her own.  
  
I saw that girl, that Shaw girl. She was with a guy from across the street from her house. He lives there with the friend of his.  
  
"Who is this?"  
  
I can't say. She looked scared. I'm scared too. He took her into his house.  
  
Perfect.  
  
#  
  
And it had gone so well. The police, all the reporters. She could watch them from her room and it felt so good as she did, because she knew that it had been her, her clever plan, and it had gone so well. So well with the police begging the tipster to call again, so well with it being on the news every night. Everyone was paying attention to her and they didn't even know it.  
  
Where was Ellen Shaw? That didn't matter. What mattered was where everybody thought she was, all because the planning had worked out. There had been that window of opportunity taken, and now look at everybody run.  
  
It was a bad thing, of course, that she had done. Ruthie knew this. Despite all the pleasure it brought her, she knew that this was wrong and that it was a sin. But she knew also that sin didn't matter. She had given herself over to Jesus Christ, and she was forgiven.  
  
For all sins, past, present, and future. Rebecca had taught her that, and it really made sense, didn't it? It really made life a lot more fun to live, knowing that Christ was there to suffer for your sins so you didn't have to.  
  
"Thank you, Jesus," Ruthie said to herself.  
  
And she smiled.  
  
---------------------  
  
Author's Note: The last time this story dealt with Shaw theology and Ruthie's interpretation of it, several readers protested that I had misrepresented the Christian theology of salvation. So before you fire off those angry reviews let me reassure you that your old buddy Hans is a firm believer in good works, not salvation at all, as the central tenet of Christianity. The Shaw theology and the Ruthie interpretation presented here are positions I have encountered in my chats with several overly enthusiastic Christians, and which seem to be the position taken by a growing number of leading evangelical Ministers today, particularly those with an eye to political power. Most Christians I know are even more appalled by this sort of logic than I am. 


	76. Number Six

Number Six  
  
* * *  
  
Thou shalt not kill.  
  
Just those four words, again and again in his mind. Even as he held the pistol, felt the cold metal beneath his hand, the reassuring weight of it, the comfortable grip. A simple thing, really. Simpler than he had ever imagined.  
  
It wouldn't be that much different than hunting, than killing a deer.  
  
Would it?  
  
Thou shalt not kill.  
  
He was in his study, his private room. No one came in here without him; no one except him knew the combination to his safe, where his guns were kept. Not even Franklin.  
  
A good boy, Franklin. He watched out for --  
  
Edward lowered his head, rubbed at his temples. Franklin did; he had. He had listened to the new rules, the rules for Ellen, and he hadn't said anything, had simply obeyed. It's hard, to be a man, especially a young man. You have to look out for your sisters, for the women in your life. This is something God has charged you with, as a man.  
  
But one slip ....  
  
Danger. Sin everywhere.  
  
Across the street.  
  
Thou shalt not kill.  
  
So simple. And who would blame him? That man had taken his Ellen, had taken her and done things to her; Kevin had found her underwear in his garage -- her underwear! So intimate, so personal.  
  
Thou shalt not kill!  
  
Take them off!  
  
Had he told her that? Had she looked up at him, helpless, frightened? Or had he simply pulled them down himself?  
  
Thou shalt not kill!  
  
Edward opened his eyes. They were filled with tears, and the gun in his hands had blurred with them, but he could still see the metal. This horror was man's law, man's doing. Not enough evidence, they said. Not enough. But did he need man's law? Look at what man's law had made of the world. Look at the sin, everywhere, the temptation, forgiven by man's law in the name of empty words like tolerance and diversity. What had following man's law brought him?  
  
Justice?  
  
No. Justice came from God, none other.  
  
God's law.  
  
Thou shalt not kill.  
  
#  
  
In time, a knock came to the door of Edward's study. Soft, familiar.  
  
A voice.  
  
"Edward?"  
  
He looked up, swallowed. He tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat.  
  
No. She mustn't see me, not like this. I'm a man. I'm her husband. I have to be strong.  
  
But it was too late. Rebecca was there, stepping into the room. He knew that she could see the gun, there in his hands.  
  
"Edward?" she asked again.  
  
And the words came to him, weak and confused.  
  
"Oh, God, Rebecca. I don't know what to do." 


	77. Dark Times

Dark Times  
  
* * *  
  
Dark times. They were dark times. She thought about this a lot, as she went through her daily routine, as one day blended into the next, as she cooked and cleaned and did the things a woman was supposed to do, the things women had been doing for millennia.  
  
And like so many of those women had done, she reflected.  
  
Dark times.  
  
Eric had changed. There was no way to put your finger on exactly how, but he had. He was still there, of course, still beside her in their bed each night, still embracing her and kissing her and telling her he loved her, but he was different now and she didn't quite know why.  
  
Lucy, too, had changed. Like her father, she brooded now, as though thinking all the time. Samantha was over a lot and Annie knew that the two of them talked, but it was like they didn't want to be heard, like they were sharing some special secret. And it had never occurred to Annie that Lucy knew the house, knew the acoustics of it, and therefore knew where and how loud you could speak and still not be heard.  
  
Simon. He said nothing, not to anyone. Annie was most worried about him, because she knew, as only a mother can, that Larry Boone had touched him, had used him, had hurt him. It was shame that consumed her second son, but he had repressed the memory of it, had denied it to his father.  
  
All this, on her shoulders, as women had borne the weight of the world since Eve had taken that forbidden fruit.  
  
Sometimes it seemed too much.  
  
She missed Matt. He had been such a godsend, helping manage the house, working with Edward Shaw as Eric recovered. And Kevin, too, with his calm, his commanding demeanor, helping keep things under control as the rest of the world went mad. Ruthie, at least, had weathered the storm, and the twins were still young enough to protect; Annie now found herself grateful that they still hadn't really learned to speak.  
  
Dark times.  
  
She often found herself praying for Ellen's soul. There is a place good girls go to when this happens to them, she thought. Jesus protects them. He loves them.  
  
He has to.  
  
And she prayed for Rebecca, and Edward, and their son in Iraq. They're such good people, such godly people. Why did this have to happen to them?  
  
#  
  
Today, however, was different. Today was harder.  
  
The familiar voice.  
  
"I have some vacation time, Mom. I can come. I can help."  
  
Tensing. Remembering.  
  
The police, the trouble. Half a beer, friends who smoke pot.  
  
Captain Jack.  
  
And words of warning. Rebecca's words.  
  
"No."  
  
"Mom?"  
  
"It's all right, Mary. We're doing fine."  
  
"Dad?"  
  
"He's fine. It was close, but he's getting better."  
  
"I want to see him."  
  
The hard word, then. Short, or it would be impossible to say.  
  
"No."  
  
Desperation on the other end, that familiar, pleading voice.  
  
"Mom? I want to see him. Can I at least talk to him?"  
  
You have to be strong, Annie, she remembered. You have to do it for your children, for your husband. They need you. They need us.  
  
"No, Mary."  
  
"I want --"  
  
"You can't. Stay in New York, or Florida, wherever you are. Stay with your new friend Jack."  
  
She could hear the weeping, through the line. "Mom, we split up. I'm alone --"  
  
"Mary, no. Stay away."  
  
"Please, Mom ...."  
  
Be strong. You have to. You have to protect those still here. You are a mother.  
  
She hung up the phone. 


	78. Arrangements

Arrangements  
  
* * *  
  
But it was still hard. Too hard. That was the afternoon she went across the street, went to Rebecca's door, rang the bell. And Rebecca was there and she saw and even though her own face was lined in her own pain she saw and she reached for Annie, holding her as she wept, taking her to her immaculate kitchen and shooing Virginia away, making some tea and listening as Annie sobbed.  
  
"I know," she said. "It's hard. I know."  
  
"How? How did it...?"  
  
"Andrea?" Rebecca regarded her. "A willful child. Always was. We tried ... God, we tried so hard, Annie. She was our darling; she had two strong brothers to watch over her. But ...."  
  
Annie tried to picture the girl, saw only Mary. Willful. Lied to us all, even her friends, to get the house to herself that time. What did she do then? And at school, she shoved that boy's head into the toilet; there was trouble for that. Not that it was entirely wrong that she did -- he was a bad kid -- but she should have let Matt handle it, should have let us handle it  
  
A willful child.  
  
"Do you ever hear?" she asked, referring to Rebecca's lost daughter as much as her own. "From her?"  
  
Rebecca shook her head.  
  
"It's hard," she admitted.  
  
Annie nodded. They talked further, these two women, so strong, each of them, their families never seeing what they endured.  
  
#  
  
Evening now and she was home. Eric had sent out for pizza, and now boxes were strewn in the Camden kitchen, the twins happily jabbering amongst themselves, reciting those gospel verses they loved so much, oblivious. Ruthie was upstairs with her homework, Simon in his room with his. Lucy was not here, having had dinner across the street so she could be with Samantha.  
  
And Eric sat in his office, headphones on.  
  
It was quiet.  
  
"Alas! and did my Savior bleed," said David, "and did my Sovereign die!"  
  
"Would he devote that sacred head, for sinners such as I?" answered Sam.  
  
The back door opened. Annie looked up.  
  
Kevin, in his uniform, just off his shift. She smiled.  
  
"Pizza?" he asked.  
  
Sam and David burped in unison.  
  
"Essscuuuse meee...."  
  
"Yeahhh.... esscussseee meee toooo...."  
  
Annie smiled at them. Kevin smiled.  
  
"Sorry," she said. "They ate it all. I can make you something."  
  
"That'd be great, Mrs. Camden. As long as it's no trouble."  
  
She shook her head. "Not at all. A sandwich?"  
  
He nodded.  
  
It was good to work. Work kept the thoughts at bay, the pain. And Kevin appreciated her, what she did. He saw her efforts and thanked her for things her own family took for granted. He would be a good son-in-law. She set the plate before him, sat as he began to eat.  
  
"This is great," he told her.  
  
"Thanks."  
  
They sat silently for a few minutes, listening to the twins jabber.  
  
"Go to dark Gethsemane, ye that feel the tempter's power."  
  
"'Tis finished! the Messiah dies, cut off for sins, but not his own."  
  
"O sacred Head, now wounded, with grief and shame weighed down."  
  
"Now scornfully surrounded with thorns, thine only crown."  
  
Kevin chuckled and reached out to pat Sam's head. The little boy tensed. Kevin turned his eyes to Annie. His voice was respectful.  
  
"Can I ask you something, Mrs. Camden?"  
  
"Of course. And please, call me Annie."  
  
"Annie. How is the reverend?"  
  
"Better, thank God."  
  
Kevin nodded. "I was wondering...."  
  
Annie watched him. He took a few seconds to collect his thoughts.  
  
"It's Lucy, Mrs. Camden. I'm worried about her."  
  
"Worried?"  
  
"She just seems directionless. She's spending all her time with that Shaw girl. I want to help her, but...."  
  
"But...." Annie said.  
  
"But I really can't, you know? I'm just a fiancé, and...."  
  
Again his voice drifted off. His face was suddenly pained.  
  
"Mrs. Camden... Annie.... I'm afraid I'm losing her. I love her. Maybe I'm just jealous, but I want to be the one to comfort her, and the Shaw girl takes all her attention anymore. I know Samantha lost her sister, but now I'm afraid I'm going to lose...."  
  
"Kevin," Annie said. "Lucy loves you. You know that."  
  
He nodded. "I know. But I want more. I want to be the one she goes to, the one to comfort her. Mrs. Camden, I want to marry her."  
  
Annie reached out, took his hand in her own. "And we want you to marry her, Kevin. You will."  
  
Kevin shook his head. The pain on his face, in his words, was suddenly palpable. "I don't know," he said. "She postponed the date when the reverend... Eric... got sick. I understand that. But it's like she's hesitating now to set a new one. I don't know what to do."  
  
The thought of Mary flashed suddenly before Annie. Mary had drifted, drifted away. They had tried, tried so hard, to settle her, to control her, but they had lost her. Not even the Colonel had been able to save her. They weren't strong, Mary and Lucy, not like Ruthie or Matt. They needed guidance. That was why Kevin was so good, why Ben would have been so good. Strong men, for their weak daughters.  
  
She thought of Rebecca again, of her words, and Annie saw the truth in them.  
  
We are women. But we are not weak. As mothers and wives we are often the strong ones. Without us our husbands would be only half men. Without us our children will go astray.  
  
Annie nodded. For Lucy, she thought. I have to be strong for Lucy's sake.  
  
"She's nervous," she said to Kevin now. "It's all right; girls often are before their weddings. It's a big day. Let's just set a date, you and I. We'll make all the arrangements; I'll make sure Eric can officiate. Then we'll tell Lucy. It'll be a relief for her to have the decision made for her. She can have Samantha be her bridesmaid, since they're such good friends."  
  
Kevin sighed, relief washing over his features.  
  
"Thank you, Annie," he sighed. "You have no idea how much this means to me." 


	79. Pray For You

Pray For You  
  
* * *  
  
Let us, with some relief, take a moment away from our little neighborhood, away from the houses with the Christians and the house with the suspected pedophile and child killer and the house with the chimpanzee and over there the house with the woman who had been interred without due process for national security during the second world war.  
  
We need a rest, I am sure.  
  
So let us go away, past downtown Glenoak and the Promenade and the movie theater, over to the area where the Camdens rarely went, to the business section, to where faith was a luxury and efficiency in the marketplace a must.  
  
To that building, modern in its architecture, five floors high, where Edward Shaw worked.  
  
It was his escape, this place, where he could go to be away from the burdens of fatherhood, this place where his responsibilities were simpler. A project for a client, extra hours put in, extra money made. He could do this, as men have throughout history, without feeling guilt that he was ignoring his wife, his children. For if it was the curse of Adam, that part of original sin, it was a blessing as well to work the soil.  
  
Work made you a man and it kept you from going mad.  
  
Or it had, until recently.  
  
He tried not to think about this, but he still found himself checking his website and posting board several times a day.  
  
Seeker.  
  
Others in his little group were posting less; perhaps the proximity to his pain, even over the electronic paths of the internet, had made them uneasy. Perhaps the picture of Ellen, smiling, beautiful Ellen, had become a reminder to them of the uncertainty of life, an uncertainty that Christ was supposed to assuage but here had not.  
  
Seeker, though, had not deserted him.  
  
#  
  
Edward, are they certain about this man, this neighbor? Does he have a history of crimes against children? I don't mean to question his innocence or guilt -- I don't have the evidence to do that -- but from what I understand violent criminals usually have a long history of less-violent crimes they commit before they act.  
  
I shouldn't speculate; I apologize. I'm sure the police are doing all they can. We disagree, you and I, about many things, but not on this. I have a particular contempt for those who would abuse a child. I do not claim to be rational about it and I don't think I have to defend that. Neither do you. Your love for your children is evident all through your web page, and your postings here.  
  
Ellen's picture is in the post office where I live, and in several large stores as well. I know managers and so on, and they'll keep it up, until you have the answers you deserve. I know that your faith in Christ is sustaining you, Edward, and your family, and I continue to pray for you and for them.  
  
#  
  
Who was this man? Unsaved by Christ; that was clear from their debates. But praying for someone he knew only off a web page he disagreed with. Edward sighed, sat back in his chair, glanced at his watch. He would respond later, after he had time to think about things.  
  
His back was to the window of his office. Even if it had not been, it is unlikely that he would have taken much note of the small black car that had pulled into the parking lot of the building. 


	80. Mending

Mending  
  
* * *  
  
"Do you ever talk to God?"  
  
These words, uttered now by Lucy, as she sat atop her bed in the room she shared with Ruthie.  
  
Samantha looked up. There was a basket by the chair where she sat, filled with clothes. On her lap was one of Franklin's shirts, and she was expertly mending it, the needle dancing up and down as she did.  
  
"You mean pray?" she asked. "Of course."  
  
Lucy shook her head. There were no clothes for her to mend; such things in the Camden home were handled by Annie, when mending occurred at all. Usually, however, clothes were not repaired but simply replaced, presumably via the generosity of the church, for the Camdens were not, at least so they claimed, a wealthy family. Perhaps this was why Lucy had asked Samantha over, that she might witness an actual chore being performed. Beside her bed, her schoolbooks sat unattended.  
  
"No," Lucy said now. "I mean talk to God. Ask him things."  
  
Her tone was serious.  
  
Samantha shook her head. "That's not what God's for, is it? You pray so he won't get angry, right? Because you sin and you need forgiveness?"  
  
Lucy sighed. "My dad talks to him. At least he used to. These days he just listens to a lot of music."  
  
Samantha nodded, the needle jabbing, pulling. She tied off her stitch, snipped the thread with the small scissors beside her. The Shaw girls did not cut thread with their teeth as some do.  
  
"Do you talk to him, Lucy?" she asked.  
  
Lucy's gaze fell and she nodded.  
  
"Sometimes."  
  
"About what?"  
  
"About my life. What I'm supposed to do with my life."  
  
"What does he tell you?"  
  
Lucy shrugged. "Nothing."  
  
"Maybe that's because it's up to you," Samantha suggested.  
  
Lucy nodded. She looked thoughtful. "I'd be married by now," she said softly, "If my dad hadn't had --"  
  
Samantha said nothing, only selected another garment from her basket; one of Virginia's dresses. She selected the correct thread and began to mend the hem. Lucy's eyes found her again.  
  
"I heard that your sister saved him, Samantha."  
  
Samantha nodded.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Can I ask you something?"  
  
"Sure."  
  
"I saw her, when you were all so kind after my dad's heart attack. She looked so.... I don't know. Lost. I felt for her. I just wanted to help her, you know? Was there anything I could have done?"  
  
Samantha stopped her sewing, the needle pausing, holding in place. Her voice was almost a whisper when she answered.  
  
"I think a lot of people have been asking themselves that," she said.  
  
"I'm sorry," Lucy said. "I didn't mean --"  
  
"It's all right."  
  
They went silent then, and Samantha returned to her work. After a time there came a knock on the doorframe. Both turned to see Kevin there. He smiled his best smile at Samantha, but she did not reciprocate.  
  
"Samantha, would you mind?" he said. "I need to have a few words with my lady."  
  
#  
  
Samantha nodded, gathered her things. She looked at Lucy.  
  
"I'll be downstairs," she said. "I'd like to talk some more, if that's okay."  
  
"Sure," Lucy said. She smiled, and then rose without thinking and hugged her. Samantha hesitated, then hugged back.  
  
Kevin watched as the Shaw girl left, then closed the door and turned to his fiancée. Lucy smiled at him and sat back down on her bed. Kevin took the chair.  
  
"Luce," he said, leaning forward a bit.  
  
She listened attentively, out of habit.  
  
"Your father is getting better."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"I was talking with your mother, with Mrs. Camden. She says he'll be ready to get back to the church soon."  
  
"Did he say that?"  
  
Kevin raised a finger to his lips, indicating that she had interrupted. Lucy quieted.  
  
"That means we can set a date, a new date, for the wedding," he said.  
  
She watched him for a moment.  
  
"Kevin...." she began.  
  
He regarded her.  
  
"I'm so busy right now.... I'm not sure...."  
  
"Not sure?"  
  
"A wedding is a big event, especially in my family. And things are...."  
  
"Things are what, Lucy?"  
  
"I've got school, and it's still so hard for Samantha. You know that."  
  
Kevin frowned. "School is fine, Luce, but is it as important as your marriage? And Samantha has no reason to be sad now. We know who the bastard was who took her sister. It's just a matter of time before we break him. He'll pay for what he did."  
  
Lucy regarded Kevin.  
  
"It's not that simple," she said. "This is hard for her ...."  
  
Kevin's voice dropped now. "How long are you going to keep saying that, Lucy?" he asked. "It seems like every time we talk anymore it's about poor Samantha. Poor, poor Samantha. You think she's the only one who's hurt because of what that pervert did to her sister? She needs to stand on her own two feet now. You can't keep coddling her."  
  
Lucy stiffened. There was something in his words, in the tone of them. She'd heard it before but this time it struck her somehow. And her voice was low as she spoke.  
  
"And I'm supposed to just let her suffer?"  
  
Kevin chuckled. It was his self-confident chuckle, also familiar.  
  
"You really think you're helping her? She whines and you listen and you think that's doing her any good? It's time for tough love, Luce. It's time for her to get over it and move on. It's time for you to stop playing Mother Theresa with this foolish idea that you can help everyone."  
  
Lucy felt her jaw drop.  
  
"I can't believe you said that!"  
  
Kevin watched her, then rose and stepped to her. He reached out and put his hand behind her neck, squeezing gently but firmly.  
  
"I've talked to your mother," he said. "She agrees that your father is ready to marry us. We've picked a date, Lucy Camden. June 14. You don't need to worry about it anymore. Because it's time to stop playing games and grow up. It's time for you to be Mrs. Kevin Kinkirk."  
  
And he leaned forward and kissed her, his lips forceful and strong, holding her in place as he did. 


	81. I Know You

I Know You  
  
The door to the black car opened, and let us take a dramatic moment to consider this. It opened and the sun, that warm, ever-present in Glenoak California sun, glinted just a bit off the glass of its window, being unable to really glint off the slightly-faded paint of the car itself, which bore, once again for dramatic effect, license plates from another state, a state not California, or New York, or Arizona or Florida. Not even Afghanistan or Iraq, those places heard about so often in Glenoak. No, these were plates from a mysterious place whose name I shall not trouble you with, gentle reader, accustomed as you are to the geography of the Camden world.  
  
A foot extends, out of the car and to the ground. It wears a practical, low-heeled shoe, the leg swathed in comfortable slacks above. Watch as another joins it, the driver standing now, her hair of shoulder length, dark, her eyes hidden behind dark glasses. She has slung her purse over her shoulder and now closes the car door, locking it with her key.  
  
She glances at a piece of paper in her hand, checking the number displayed prominently over the building's main entrance, making sure they are the same.  
  
They are.  
  
She steps forward, this woman, as we watch.  
  
And a new thing begins on the old.  
  
#  
  
Inside the main lobby, she checked the building's directory and then stepped to the elevator, taking it to the third floor. This floor was dominated by branches of a brokerage firm and a software development company, each taking about half the level. The woman did not go to the brokerage firm but instead walked to the receptionist of the other, standing before her.  
  
"Can I help you?" the receptionist asked. She was a pleasant, chubby woman with a ready smile, and she could balance fifteen calls or more at once in her head, which made her actually more valuable to the firm than the local regional manager, though she received less than a quarter his pay. But no matter.  
  
The woman before her spoke.  
  
"I'm looking for Edward Shaw," she said.  
  
"I think you're in luck," the receptionist said. "He usually goes to lunch about this time, but he may still be here. Who shall I say is asking for him?"  
  
"Mrs. Thompson," the woman answered.  
  
The receptionist nodded. If it occurred to her that it was odd for Edward Shaw to receive visitors at work, she didn't show it. Instead she expertly punched buttons on her incredibly complicated phone system and spoke.  
  
"Mr. Shaw? There's a Mrs. Thompson here to see you. Yes, very good."  
  
She pulled down the mike from her headset and smiled.  
  
"He'll be right out."  
  
Mrs. Thompson nodded.  
  
#  
  
Now, he had to come out, Edward did, because as you know software companies regularly steal and pirate technology from one another, it being a terribly competitive industry. So it was in the little lobby of the office, there before the receptionist and his coworkers Glenda Kraft and Bob Farley (who had just come back from their own lunch hour) where Edward appeared and stopped, his mouth opening just a little bit but no words coming forth.  
  
Mrs. Thompson spoke. Her voice was soft.  
  
"Hi, Dad." 


	82. The Belt

The Belt  
  
Edward did not answer. Perhaps he didn't even feel the stares of Glenda Kraft or Bob Farley or the most skilled receptionist on him, and on the woman in front of him. Maybe he could not; could you have?  
  
Instead he stood, watching her. She watched him back.  
  
Finally, none of the five in the room moving, Edward spoke.  
  
"Get out."  
  
Mrs. Thompson answered. Her voice, the other three would later reflect, was rather like his.  
  
"Not until we talk."  
  
"We have nothing to say to each other."  
  
"Don't we?"  
  
His face, already lined with the pain that the receptionist and Glenda and Bob had assigned to the fact that his daughter had been kidnapped, added a new agony. He shook his head.  
  
"No."  
  
Mrs. Thompson regarded him.  
  
"No? There are many things about you that I could tell, Dad." She glanced at the receptionist. "A few things about your belt, for example."  
  
Edward paled. He would not have, not earlier, not only a few months ago. Tell what you want, he would have said. Spread your godless lies and half-truths.  
  
But not today. Not now. Something about Mrs. Thompson's words sank in, sank in deep, into that place in his soul where regrets and self-doubts roared. Now his voice was soft, almost afraid.  
  
"No. Andrea ...."  
  
It trailed off. Andrea watched him. If his weakness affected her she gave no sign.  
  
"We'll talk," she said. "You and I. Or I'll talk."  
  
Edward sighed, his gaze falling, and he nodded.  
  
#  
  
They went together, father and daughter, to a nearby restaurant, selected an isolated table. Edward looked away, then back at Andrea, then away again. She regarded him.  
  
"How have you been?" she asked.  
  
He shrugged, said nothing.  
  
"How are Mom, the others?"  
  
Again the silence.  
  
"Dad ...."  
  
This word at least sank in, and he looked at her. Andrea spoke again.  
  
"What happened, Dad? What happened to Ellen?"  
  
At last he answered.  
  
"What do you know?"  
  
Andrea's voice changed, took on a dangerous tone. "Enough to come, not more. I saw her picture on your website, that's all. You don't call, don't write."  
  
"We don't know where you --"  
  
"You damn well do. We sent you a Christmas card last year. Don't lie to me, Dad."  
  
His eyes widened in a sudden anger. "Language!" he growled.  
  
But she did not back down. He shouldn't have expected her too; she hadn't last time, all those years ago at her own eighteenth birthday party, the day she had told him to his face that she never wanted to see him again. All that rage in his beautiful little girl....  
  
Rage that was still there. "What happened, Dad? Where is my sister?"  
  
Ellen, Andrea. Samantha and Virginia. His daughters, his beautiful daughters. Perfect creations of God, celebrations of life. One gone, now another. And this demon who Andrea had become, this force of wrath and pain that he could not help but still love, despite her betrayal of his authority, of his faith, of his God. And his voice caught as he answered, and he had to take a drink of water to clear it.  
  
"We -- I don't know. They think a neighbor --"  
  
Andrea paused. "Took her?"  
  
Edward nodded.  
  
"How? How did this happen? What the hell happened, Dad?"  
  
"She was.... There was trouble. I --"  
  
Andrea watched him, her eyes burning into him.  
  
"Trouble?"  
  
She knew. Somehow she knew, and he could tell she was judging him, like all of them did, all of the homosexuals and atheists and feminists who called him evil, who spit in the face of God and Christ, who laughed at the reality of judgment. Judging him for keeping his children safe, for disciplining them and teaching them the truth. Judging him, a Christian, while they joyfully embraced the Devil. And now Edward's strength returned, the feeling of Christ in him once again, as he looked at the fallen one who had once been his daughter.  
  
"I corrected it," he said.  
  
"Like you did with me?"  
  
"Spare the rod, spoil the child."  
  
"Don't quote that shit with me, Dad. Did you hit her?"  
  
"I loved her!"  
  
The words snapped out, and they were true. But as well with them there came the tense, not thought of, not thought through. "Loved."  
  
Past tense.  
  
Ellen.  
  
Past.  
  
And Edward Shaw stood, glared down at Andrea.  
  
"I'll pay the check," he said. "Don't come back."  
  
He turned, and she reached for him, her fingers closing about his wrist, closing tight. He stopped, suddenly weak as she pulled his hand to her, as she pressed his fingers against her belly and held him there.  
  
"Do you feel it, Dad?" she asked, and in sudden horror and realization he did, the warmth of her through her blouse, and he understood.  
  
He tried to speak, to be strong again.  
  
But Christ had abandoned him. Christ of the sword, riding through the clouds on judgment day, suddenly faded like a puff of smoke, replaced by another.  
  
Another image, another Christ. A manger, for there was no room at the inn.  
  
Andrea was watching him. She spoke softly.  
  
"You're going to be a grandpa, Dad." 


	83. Quiet Time

Quiet Time  
  
Quiet.  
  
He had forgotten, Eric had, how precious quiet could be. Always there was his family, his kids, an endless stream of strangers in his home. This had been a part of his old job, a part of being a minister. And it was good, too, the constant noise, because it was life, all of it. Matt with his endless enthusiasm, Mary and Lucy with the secrets sisters share, Simon and Ruthie playing the endless games of the imagination that they had.  
  
And then the twins, crying for a diaper change, for a bottle, for Lucy to sing them a hymn. She had such a beautiful voice, Lucy did.  
  
Noise, wonderful and alive.  
  
But he had forgotten the value of quiet.  
  
A precious thing, never lasting.  
  
He heard the door to his office open. Turning in his chair, he saw Annie walk in.  
  
"Hi," he said.  
  
She answered with a curt nod. "How do you feel?"  
  
"Good," he answered.  
  
She nodded again. There was a tension to her face, always there these days. She had been so beautiful once, so easy to love, with such a love of life in her. Now she smiled through the tension and he saw just a hint of who she had been.  
  
"I'm glad."  
  
He had a sudden urge, Eric did, to hold her, to make love to her. He grinned. "Come here," he said.  
  
She looked back. "What is it?"  
  
"I want to kiss you."  
  
She sighed, leaned across the desk, gave him a peck on the lips. He reached for her to hold her, to bring her closer, but she was stronger than he and she pulled his hands away.  
  
"I've been talking with Kevin," she said.  
  
"That's nice."  
  
"We've set a date."  
  
"A date?"  
  
"For Lucy's wedding. You'll be back at the church by then. She wants you to officiate."  
  
He sighed. Again with the church. It was all Annie talked about these days, him getting back to work. But of what value was his work? To stand before a crowd each week and tell them what to do? What had Elvis said?  
  
Do your best, Eric.  
  
Is this my best?  
  
"I don't know," he said.  
  
"You don't know?"  
  
He looked at her.  
  
"I don't know if I want to go back. There are things I need to think about."  
  
Her face went to a glare, her eyes boring into him. And her voice had a bitterness as she spoke.  
  
"What you need, Eric Camden, is to do what you are supposed to do. You need to think of your family, of your daughter, of your future son-in-law. Not yourself. Selfishness does not become you."  
  
He watched her, watched his Annie, as she stared down at him. His desire to make love had vanished and he said nothing.  
  
Finally she turned and stalked away.  
  
#  
  
Eric looked at the door for a time. It was silent again, but not in the same way. There was a heaviness to it now, a weight. With a sigh he reached for his headphones, pulled them on, punched up a song on the boom-box by his desk. Words and music filtered in to him.  
  
#  
  
I remember how your eyes used to light up  
  
Over promises that I made  
  
But for the first time in my life  
  
I know now how it feels to be afraid  
  
I don't know what I'd do if you go away  
  
This would sure be one lonely old town  
  
For a man's so busy going up in the world  
  
That he couldn't see love coming down  
  
Love coming down  
  
#  
  
The phone rang, once, twice. He had gotten into the habit of letting someone else answer, but this time no one did. And so finally Eric paused the King and pulled the headphones down to his neck, picked up the phone and brought the receiver up to his ear.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
A voice, soft, timid.  
  
"Dad?"  
  
He smiled at the familiarity.  
  
"Mary? How are you?"  
  
The softness became an audible tremble.  
  
"Oh, God, Dad, I've been trying to call you ...."  
  
"Trying?" he asked. "Couldn't you get through?" 


	84. Ripples

Ripples  
  
Think now, gentle reader, of a pebble in a pond. The pebble may be small, all but insignificant, but when it falls, when it hits the water and vanishes, the ripples it leaves take much longer to fade. They last, marking the water, the pond, the world. And sometimes too, when these ripples reach the bank, they are not alone; sometimes other pebbles have fallen, their ripples joining the first, together.  
  
It is said, no doubt, that enough ripples, brought together at the same time, can make a wave that will break the world.  
  
Edward Shaw, driving home from work, the black car behind him. He keeps glancing in the mirror, hoping perhaps that it will not be there, thinking to himself that he should accelerate away, use his Lexus' superior power to leave the black car behind, leaving it in the past where for so long it has stayed.  
  
But he will not. He will drive home as he always does, will pull into his driveway, engage his brake and emerge from his car. And the black car, he knows, will park on the street before his house, and Andrea will emerge from it and walk with him up to the front door, will shatter the sanctity and security of his home, and there is nothing, nothing at all, that he can do to stop it.  
  
This will happen, gentle reader. And we, your humble narrator and you, will see it.  
  
But across the street, in the large, comfortable home owned by the Glenoak Community Church, another ripple has reached the bank, another group of events has been set into motion. Here, there are no cars, only a man, only Eric Camden, hanging up the phone in his office, sitting for a moment and staring at the doors, at the desk, at his Bible and his stack of Elvis CD's, his heart racing, his hands clenching and unclenching into and out of fists, his breath short.  
  
Edward reaches the street. He pulls in, pulls up to his house, turns into his driveway. Andrea is behind him and she parks, emerging, standing, walking to him. Together they step up to the front door.  
  
As they do, back in the Camden home Eric stands. Wordlessly he moves through the living room and into the kitchen, where his wife awaits. 


	85. For Your Own Good

For Your Own Good  
  
Annie was there, cooking, the plates for dinner arrayed beside the stove, waiting to be set. At the table, the twins sat, talking quietly amongst themselves.  
  
Annie turned as Eric entered.  
  
"Dinner's not ready," she said. "And don't think you can have anything out of the fridge; you know what the doctors said."  
  
Eric said nothing. She watched him. The twins went suddenly silent.  
  
"Well?" she demanded.  
  
His voice, soft, low.  
  
"I just talked to Mary."  
  
Annie put a hand to her hip. "Really?"  
  
There was an edge to her voice, a tone to it.  
  
"Did you tell her she couldn't call?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
He wondered if he should be surprised, if he should be shocked, that she had admitted it so quickly. He felt the blood rushing, racing, felt his face go red. No denial, no evasion. Just those eyes, those eyes he didn't know anymore.  
  
"Did you tell her she couldn't talk to me?"  
  
Annie nodded. "Yes. It's for her own good."  
  
The words came out louder than he expected. "For her own good?"  
  
"And yours."  
  
"WHAT?"  
  
Annie took a step forward, then another, came to him and reached for his hand. "I had to, Eric. For you. For the family. We tried with her; you did, and the Colonel did. You both did your best. But your heart, Eric, and Simon and Ruthie and the twins. Mary nearly tore this family apart. She has to grow up. She has to learn that there are consequences for her actions. She has to come back to God."  
  
Eric tried to speak, failed. He had wanted to deny it, had wanted to believe that Mary had been lying, that this was just the school gym all over again, just the trouble. But she hadn't called for money, his daughter. She hadn't called to be rescued or fixed.  
  
She had merely called because she needed to be loved.  
  
He pulled his hand free.  
  
"You kept my daughter from me?"  
  
"I am your wife, Eric. I know what's best for you."  
  
"Telling my daughter she can't talk to me is what's best for me?"  
  
Annie softened, her face taking on emotion. "Eric, I saw how you were when she drove away that day, don't you remember? She was too much. She was why you had that second heart attack. We can't lose you, Eric. We need you-- I need you. If she killed you, if she made that happen, what would we do?"  
  
An old thing: angry, then kind. He wondered why he hadn't seen it in Annie before. He said nothing as she spoke again.  
  
"Eric, you are a man of God, a Minister. You can't afford to let Mary destroy you. We can't afford it. The congregation can't afford it."  
  
Ripples, from pebbles, growing, moving, reaching shore. A little thing here, there, multiplied. A voice, soft and afraid and lost.  
  
Dad.... Dad.... please love me, Dad.  
  
"Goddammit!"  
  
It was him, that part of him suppressed for so long he had forgotten it existed. Rage, mindless, overwhelming. Annie took a step back.  
  
"Goddammit, Annie! She's my daughter! You had no right!"  
  
Annie, firming, standing her ground.  
  
"Don't take tone with me, Eric!"  
  
"Don't you fucking tell me what tone to take! Don't you fucking try and justify this! What the hell is wrong with you?"  
  
"I am protecting you! I'm doing what's right for you! Don't you even think about your family? About me? About Lucy? Simon? Ruthie? Are you that selfish?"  
  
"Selfish? Our own daughter and you turn on her? Did you even call her when I was in the hospital? Do you even give a shit about her?"  
  
"I give a shit about us, Eric Camden!"  
  
#  
  
When you are standing there, before God and clergy and your family, in the calm of the church, the cross above, you never think that this might happen, never think you might slip. When you take that vow, to love, to cherish, to have and to hold, for better or for worse, it never occurs to you what rage is, deep down.  
  
Don't feel bad. Eric hadn't either.  
  
He felt his hand go out, close about something, something smooth, felt it leave his hand as he threw. He saw the graceful arc as though it was slow motion, the plate sailing to the wall behind Annie, and he heard the sharp report as it shattered.  
  
"Goddammit!"  
  
Another plate, another. Shards of ceramic rage littered the floor. The twins flinched.  
  
"Don't you dare!" he bellowed. "Don't you dare get between me and my kids! Don't you fucking dare!"  
  
Annie was yelling now, yelling back, her words matching his own, shouting about responsibility and his duty to God, to her, to family, but the words didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered, not now. All was instinct, rage. We may count it in Eric Camden's favor that something within him, some deep bit of the civilized man, the man of God, the man of Elvis, did not do more, did not cross the line into final darkness. Instead that last vestige of strength turned him then and led him from the house that had once been his home, storming out to his car, the engine roaring to life as he sped away and down the street, almost but not quite hitting the little black sedan parked before the Shaw residence as he did. 


	86. Andie?

Andie?  
  
They stepped through the open door, he and then she, the place familiar to him but not to her.  
  
Home.  
  
He, without meaning to, glanced at the rail by the staircase, at the spot he had struck with the catalog.  
  
How long ago, now?  
  
He said nothing. Andrea watched him.  
  
I swore, Edward thought. I swore I wouldn't feel this, wouldn't let this happen. He had expected her return, of course; it was not possible that a girl could remain on her own, without her family. She would come back, would come back and beg to return, would beg for forgiveness.  
  
Could God forgive her?  
  
But there was no begging. Only this young woman he knew but did not, looking so different in slacks, so different in her carriage, in how she stood, in how she looked around her. She would recognize the furniture, most of it, the paintings on the walls, the perfect neatness to everything in the home, the pride of Rebecca and his daughters.  
  
These she would know, and he saw from her gaze that she did.  
  
"It looks good, Dad."  
  
"Your mother," he said.  
  
Motion, then, ahead, in the hallway leading to the kitchen. Someone.  
  
Samantha, apron over her dress, just standing there, mouth frozen half-open.  
  
Andrea's voice.  
  
"Hi, Sammie."  
  
"Andie? ANDIE?"  
  
And Samantha, rushing forward, holding, holding tight as Andrea held her back. More motion, confused, impossible to follow. Barry, little Barry, running down the stairs at the excitement. Franklin, from the den, his face wide with that wonder that he had had before, so long ago, hesitating only a second before coming close, before Andrea brought him in with an arm. And Virginia, wondering what this was all about, who this stranger was, this woman who wept now.  
  
All this Edward saw. All this and more.  
  
Rebecca.  
  
At the door to the kitchen, watching, a large spoon in her hand. Her eyes on the children, then on him. Her voice, firming.  
  
"Edward?"  
  
He regarded her helplessly.  
  
"What is this?" she asked.  
  
Andrea turned her attention to her mother.  
  
"Hi, Mom."  
  
"Edward?" Rebecca demanded.  
  
He swallowed, heavily, and stepped toward his wife. "Rebecca, listen to me. I had to--"  
  
"Had to?"  
  
Andrea relaxed her hold on Samantha and Franklin. "Mom--" she said.  
  
But Rebecca did not look at her. "Virginia, Barry!" she barked. "To your rooms! Now!"  
  
They were well disciplined, the Shaw children, but even so they went slowly, eyes on Andrea as they did.  
  
"Samantha, Franklin, you too," Edward added.  
  
They hesitated, these two. He had rarely seen this before, and never recently. They were good kids, his children, taught to obey, to trust. But they held to her, to Andrea; they were old enough to remember her, to remember her well, to remember the older sister who had played with them, who had taken care of them.  
  
"Dad--" Franklin said.  
  
"It's all right, son. Go on. Take your sister. It's all right."  
  
Franklin did, his hand closing around Samantha's arm, tugging gently, his eyes wet in agony. At last Samantha went, wiping her eyes with her hand, Andrea watching the both of them as they ascended the steps. When they heard doors closing upstairs Edward turned to her.  
  
"Is this what you wanted?" he asked. "To hurt them like this?"  
  
Andrea turned her attention to him, to Rebecca.  
  
"Do we fight now?" she answered.  
  
"It's what you want, isn't it?" Rebecca spat. "It's what you wanted--"  
  
"Did I?"  
  
"You made your choice. You turned your back on God, on this family."  
  
Andrea shook her head. "Not on them. Never on them."  
  
"You left them," Edward said.  
  
"I left you."  
  
A pause came then, and they watched each other. To move would be to admit weakness, to speak would lead nowhere. It was the old argument, the old dispute. She was not what they had raised her to be.  
  
Until at last Andrea spoke again.  
  
"What happened to Ellen?"  
  
Rebecca went pale, trembling. Edward turned, watched her as she spoke.  
  
"Your people," Rebecca hissed. "They took her. They raped her. And they let the man who did it go."  
  
"My people?"  
  
Rebecca came to him now, holding tight, fighting the tears. Edward spoke what she could not.  
  
"Atheists."  
  
"You think I'm an atheist?"  
  
"You rejected God. You rejected Christ."  
  
"Was it Christ who told you to hit me? Did God tell you to hit Ellen?"  
  
"Get out."  
  
Andrea stood firm. "If I leave now, Dad, I go to the police. I tell them what you did to Ellen. They don't know that, do they? Would that change their investigation?"  
  
Rebecca held him close; her tears had stopped, and she glared at their eldest daughter. And it came to Edward that as before, there was no choice. The world was wicked, sinful, the true Christians few and oppressed. Because Andrea would go, he knew; this was no bluff. She would go and tell them that he beat his children, that he had beaten her, that he was cruel and arbitrary. And they would believe her, too, her lies. These same people who had released the killer of his child would believe her, and they would tear his family asunder, would place his children in the homes of unbelievers, condemning them.  
  
Forever.  
  
He tried to make his voice strong.  
  
"What do you want, Andrea? What is it you want?"  
  
She answered clearly.  
  
"To stay for a little while," she said. "To help. To know what happened to my sister." 


	87. Sleepless In Glenoak

Sleepless In Glenoak  
--------------  
  
She could feel him there.  
  
Still.  
  
This made no sense, really, but no matter how hard she rubbed, the sensation of his fingers, of his strong hand, remained on her neck. Like he had branded her, marked her.  
  
With his hand, with his words.  
  
We've set a date.  
  
It's time for you to stop playing Mother Theresa with this foolish idea that you can help everyone.  
  
It's time for you to become Mrs. Kevin Kinkirk.  
  
Lucy turned in her bed, bringing her hand up to the back of her neck once more. Kevin was strong; she had forgotten how strong he was. He could break her like a stick if he wanted to.  
  
This thought troubled her. She had never thought it before; before she had always found his strength romantic. A strong man for her, a strong man for Lucy Camden.  
  
Lucy Kinkirk.  
  
Holding her.  
  
Directing her.  
  
Loving her?  
  
He said it, of course. He said it all the time. I love you. Three words that had melted her heart when he had proposed, when she had accepted his ring. Words she wanted to believe.  
  
Do you?  
  
She turned again, the motion of it making her covers rustle. Across the way, Ruthie stirred.  
  
"Can you be quiet, please?"  
  
"Sorry," Lucy said.  
  
Ruthie grunted something and went silent.  
  
Lucy tried to remain still for a while longer. When it was clear she wasn't going to be sleeping, she rose quietly and pulled on her robe, then slipped out the door and down to the living room, where she sat quietly in the dark until dawn.  
  
It meant skipping class, but this didn't seem to matter as Lucy dressed the next morning and went across the street. She noticed the black car out front, passed by it and stepped up to the front door, where she rang the doorbell.  
  
Several seconds passed. Then the door opened.  
  
Mrs. Shaw looked tired. Lucy smiled, hoping it would look sincere.  
  
"Good morning, Mrs. Shaw," she said. "Is Samantha here?" 


	88. I Want My Cable TV

I Want My Cable TV  
---------------  
  
Cable. He had forgotten about cable, had forgotten about the luxury of twenty channels, had indeed forgotten about the luxury of television at all. Back in the day, he remembered, he had enjoyed television, even as his own father had forbidden it, had decried it as corrupting, as wrong.  
  
Get outside, Eric. Work. Make yourself strong. You won't make it as a Marine by sitting around.  
  
But there had been times, always times, that he could get away and enjoy a little television. It hadn't been sophisticated in those days, not like today. Just simple stories, funny sitcoms like Get Smart and F-Troop, and shows like Star Trek that could inspire a young man to dream.  
  
Oh, and Gunsmoke. Pretending to be Marshall Dillon.  
  
Marshal Dillon always knew the right thing to do.  
  
Now it was the nostalgia channel.  
  
He had forgotten these feelings, this sense of freedom.  
  
The motel room wasn't big, but it was safe. Lots of locks on the door, and Eric had engaged them all and then slumped onto the bed, piling up the pillows behind his head, and he lay there in his underwear and flipped idly through the channels.  
  
An escape. No Annie, no kids, no church. These were too much and they had nearly killed him.  
  
There was a lot of crap on the television, too. The kind of stuff he had preached against in church. Moral decay. Sex. He flipped past these channels, told himself that he wasn't going to deal with that sort of thing. And he wondered, too, why it was that the church, why Christianity itself, condemned sex so viciously.  
  
Did it help to call an act that created life dirty?  
  
But Adam and Eve's sin was sex, wasn't it? Haven't we inherited their sin?  
  
Or do we make sin ourselves?  
  
There was a Bible, a Gideon, in the drawer by the bed. Eric pulled it out and flipped through it, went back to Genesis.  
  
"And the Lord God said, Behold, the man is become as one of us, to know good and evil...."  
  
One of us.  
  
Who are you?  
  
Eric closed the Bible, turned his attention back to the television.  
  
Night settled over Glenoak.  
  
He thought about Annie, what she had said.  
  
----  
  
In time he dozed. He hadn't meant to, indeed had meant to stay up late in a spirit of rebellion. There was a pang of regret that he had left home so quickly that he hadn't brought Mary's number. He wanted to talk with her, wanted to hear her voice. But he wasn't going back for it, not to that house and that stranger who had once been his wife.  
  
And the others?  
  
Let them be without me for a while. Let them deal with their own troubles.  
  
I'm tired of the responsibility of playing God.  
  
He dozed.  
  
The television flickered, ran credits. They were running old movies.  
  
"Eric?" he heard.  
  
He opened his eyes, or perhaps not. It was hard to tell.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
Maybe it was on the television screen, what he saw. He was dimly, distantly aware that the movie playing now was one he knew, one he had seen long ago.  
  
When he had been young.  
  
Handsome.  
  
Adored.  
  
A sensation, with those hips.  
  
"Eric?"  
  
Eric blinked.  
  
"Yeah, Eric. It's me."  
  
Eric blinked again.  
  
"Am I dead?" he asked. The question seemed far away.  
  
"Not this time," Elvis said.  
  
"Then why are you here?"  
  
The King shrugged. Rhinestones glittered. "Jesus couldn't make it."  
  
"Still?"  
  
"He's got a lot of mourning to do. You Christians sure can do a lot of harm, you know?"  
  
Eric nodded. "Yeah."  
  
Elvis smiled. "And good, too, when you want to."  
  
"I've tried," Eric admitted. "But--"  
  
"No 'buts', Eric. You remember what we talked about?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"You know," Elvis said, "that's what people don't get. You have to do good or it won't happen. It doesn't do itself. Bad stuff, mean stuff, evil stuff, that happens naturally. But good, that takes effort. Most Christians think it's so easy, but they're wrong. They think Christ will solve everything if they just do what they're told by some slick former used-car salesman with a polyester suit and a zipper Bible and a TV show, or a Pope who lives like a king claiming to represent a guy who rarely had a change of clothes in his life. They think God can't forgive sin on his own."  
  
Eric said nothing. This was The King, after all.  
  
"That takes a lot of gall, don't you think?" Elvis asked. "Omnipotent, all wise God, and he's incapable of something as simple as forgiveness? Has to have Jesus tortured to death for a crutch because he can't look his own creations in the eye? Why do Christians insist that God be such a wussie?"  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"That's just what Jesus said." Elvis looked down at Eric. "So," he sighed. "How long is this going to be?"  
  
"Sorry?"  
  
"How long are you going to act like a lazy Christian and sit here expecting Jesus or someone else to fix things?"  
  
"Annie?" Eric asked.  
  
Elvis chuckled. "She's just the start. Remember what I said, Eric. There's big trouble coming. Some of it's already here. You've got a chance-- it isn't certain-- but a chance to do some real good. The kind of good Jesus talks about, the kind Christians can do if they decide to. Jesus is a pretty smart guy, if you have the guts to actually listen to him."  
  
"The guts?"  
  
Elvis chuckled again. "Yeah. Read those gospels and try to actually live that way. Try to actually forgive those who hurt you. Try to actually turn the other cheek and not cast stones and make love, real, honest, forgiving love, the foundation for your life. Try not to fetishize money and comfort. You know what Jesus told the pizza delivery guy the other day?"  
  
"I miss pizza," Eric said.  
  
The King let out a laugh, burst into song.  
  
"Love that pizza, love it dear,  
"Anchovies and cheese...."  
  
Eric listened in awe. This was The King, after all. When Elvis had finished he looked down at him again.  
  
"Eric, he said that the gospels were the hard part of the Bible and that Paul and the others wasted their lives trying to make it easy, trying to remake everything he said so they wouldn't have to do the tough job of actually working to make life better right here and right now. But people do that, Eric. It's part of being human. Life is tough and we keep lying to ourselves that it isn't, that Jesus or Muhammad or Buddha or television are giving us a shortcut. Truth is, there's no shortcut."  
  
"You do your best," Eric said softly.  
  
"Exactly. Glad to see you remember. That leaves us with only one question."  
  
"Which is?"  
  
"Are you going to go home and do your best, Eric, or are you going to sit here and watch television in your underwear while you let yourself get convinced that real problems actually get solved in an hour less time for commercials, like they do on that so-called 'family values' show on the WB?"  
  
Eric was silent for a moment. There was the temptation, keenly felt, to remain. There was the wonder of cable and all the locks on the door to keep the world out. It would be so easy just to stay, a Bible in the drawer and the remote in his hand.  
  
Too easy.  
  
"I'll go back," he said.  
  
Elvis grinned. "Good. Now, get up here and let's sing 'All Shook Up'." 


	89. Suspicion

Suspicion  
--------------------  
  
What Ellen knew, Andrea had often suspected. Samantha was beautiful, with that natural beauty that women spend billions trying to replicate and men spend years trying to find, and Samantha knew it.  
  
Power came with such beauty.  
  
But a coldness, too.  
  
Not towards Andrea, or Ellen, or Virginia, or any of the boys. But to those outside, even to Mom and Dad, Samantha was different. Absent was Ellen's inquisitive warmth, her passion. Absent was Virginia's innocent trust. Absent even was her own, Andrea's, force, her habit of meeting the world head-on. No, with Samantha there was always much more than met the eye, always something going on in the background.  
  
Andrea had Ellen's bed. It felt odd, even uncomfortable, to be here, in this house, and more than this in this bed. She had mentioned the couch but Samantha had convinced everyone otherwise, that she wanted someone in the room with her, and Andrea saw her parents give in, and she knew that Samantha was working them.  
  
They sat that evening, when the lights were out and the house quiet, just she in her pajamas and Samantha in her flannel nightgown, in the dim of the room.  
  
"I've missed you, Sammie."  
  
Samantha nodded.  
  
"You been okay?"  
  
"No."  
  
There was truth to that one word, an unusual truth that Andrea recognized. A narrow point of light through the wall.  
  
"Ellen?"  
  
"I miss her, Andie. I really do. I never thought--"  
  
Her voice cut off abruptly.  
  
Andrea sought words, the right words.  
  
"It wasn't your fault, Sammie."  
  
Samantha looked at her, said nothing. In that gaze a truth emerged, unseen by others. But Andrea was not others. Andrea was the eldest and she knew, not in detail, perhaps, but she knew that there was much more here than met the eye.  
  
In time, words later, they slept. And in time they awoke to a soft knock on the door as Lucy Camden arrived seeking answers of her own. 


	90. Where Are You?

Where Are You?  
------------------  
  
She had tried. No one appreciated that, how much she had tried. No one appreciated what she had given up, what she had gone through for them.  
  
Not even him.  
  
Where was he?  
  
She had called Lou, had told him to check the church, to check the office. She had called Detective Michaels and demanded that he send out units.  
  
"Annie, he left on his own. He's an adult and not under duress. He doesn't qualify as a missing person."  
  
"His heart--" she protested.  
  
"He knows how to get help if he needs it. In forty-eight hours we can file a missing person report, but that's all, unless something else comes up in the meantime."  
  
She put the phone down, too tired to fight. The twins sat quietly as she fed them, and Ruthie said nothing. Simon was always quiet.  
  
This house used to be so alive, Annie thought. We were the perfect family, the kind of family that should win awards for being so functional.  
  
I made us the perfect family. God blessed us.  
  
God.  
  
Night came and passed and her bed was too large for one.  
  
It was the next morning that the knock came on her back door.  
  
You remember, dear reader, that first meeting. Two women, two wives, sitting together for tea. The world before them, each dedicated to God, to Christ. Two good mothers, loyal.  
  
Sitting now. Annie poured Rebecca's tea, then her own.  
  
Neither spoke. Rebecca just stared down, into the brown liquid. The twins came to the door of the kitchen for something, watched for a moment and then scurried away.  
  
"It's... hard," Rebecca said finally.  
  
Annie nodded.  
  
"What they do to you," Rebecca added.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
They were silent again.  
  
"What if they don't come home?" Annie asked then. Rebecca looked up.  
  
"What if they do?" she answered.  
  
"Edward?"  
  
Rebecca shook her head. "He's weak. Since Ellen--"  
  
Words died, came back slowly.  
  
"He's weak, Annie, not a man anymore. Not strong enough to stop her."  
  
"Her?"  
  
"Andrea. She's going to destroy everything, Annie. She's brought Satan into my home. And he won't stop her."  
  
Annie nodded again. "Can you?"  
  
Rebecca looked away, at the window, at the sunlight beaming in, this being Glenoak where it only rained to make weddings and beatings more dramatic.  
  
"I prayed, last night, for Christ to strike her down. My own daughter.... I prayed...."  
  
The name "Andrea" clicked then, in Annie's memory, and with it Rebecca's words: You have to cut them off. You can't let them pollute your other children.  
  
And if your husband didn't understand?  
  
If he left you?  
  
Where are you, Eric? 


	91. Morning Sandwich

Morning Sandwich

------------

He'd worked the night shift and felt good. Roxanne was a looker, no doubt there, and sometimes he fantasized about breaking her, about having her on her knees in front of him, eyes down, begging. It was a good fantasy, one he enjoyed precisely because he knew it could never happen. Impossible fantasies have a charm to them, whatever they may be.

Someday he'd dress Lucy up like a cop and break her instead.

It had been a good shift. There had been that homeless man downtown, and the satisfaction of jabbing him hard in the ribs with his nightstick while Roxanne wasn't looking, then the hopeless look on the man's face when he had told him to clear out of town.

Nowhere to go. Nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide.

Yeah. That's what power was, when the other guy has nothing left.

So Kevin came in now, through the back door to get some breakfast. It amused him how the Camdens were willing not just to give him cheap rent but also free food, and Kevin took full advantage of this. Cheap rent, free food, and their daughter.

Soon.

He saw Annie and Rebecca sitting, gave them a kind smile.

"Good morning, ladies."

Annie looked up, tried to smile back.

"Good morning, Kevin."

They both looked bad. Worn out and tired. Old hags. Kevin put this from his mind and stepped to the refrigerator. Normally Annie would have made him something, but he decided not to push it.

"Kevin?" Annie asked.

He looked back at her.

"Yes, Mrs. Camden?"

"Eric. Did you see him tonight?"

Kevin shook his head. "No. He's not here?"

She hesitated. "He left, yesterday. I called Detective Michaels, but..."

"I'm sure he's fine, Mrs. Camden. Is everything all right?"

Now her face dropped. He had never seen her like this, so weak, and he made a note of it in case he ever had to hurt her. Just like a woman, he thought. Weak.

"We fought," she admitted softly.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Mrs. Camden. And he hasn't been back?"

"No."

A part of Kevin wanted to smile. Maybe the old bastard was dead. Maybe his heart had given out somewhere and he was now out of the picture. That would be convenient and it would make it all the easier to control his daughter.

"I'm sorry to hear that. I'll keep an eye out for him when I go back on duty, and I'll pass the word to the others. Is Lucy here?"

Annie smiled. "I haven't seen her. She's probably at school."

Kevin nodded. "I'll catch her later. If I don't see her every day, it's like the day isn't complete."

He finished making his sandwich and took it with him up to the garage apartment. He had a hankering to play with his sword.


	92. Do You Love Him?

Do You Love Him?

---------------------

Do you?

That was the question.

Lucy sat and wondered. The door was closed, and Samantha had turned on the clock radio by her bed. Christian rock filled the room as the three of them talked, masking their voices.

_"I will praise him! Praise him! Praise him!_

_"Praise him forevermore!_

_"Jesus saved me! Saved me! Saved me!_

_"From all the sins I did before!"_

She hadn't expected Andrea, hadn't recognized the name as Samantha introduced her. But there was a similarity between her and Samantha and you could tell that they were sisters, could tell they were Rebecca's children.

"Do you?"

Lucy looked at Samantha, at her beautiful face and piercing eyes. Samantha spoke again.

"This is important, Lucy. You have to be sure."

Lucy nodded. "I did..."

"No. Do you?"

Andrea spoke then. "Tell me about him, Lucy, if you want. Maybe I can help."

There was a confidence to Andrea that felt reassuring. Lucy heard herself answering.

"I did love him. We met in Buffalo, at the airport. I was being silly and going off about being a member of al-Qaeda, and he said I was pretty..."

"Al-Qaeda? In an airport?"

Lucy giggled. "Isn't that silly? Someday it'll make such a funny story for our kids to hear."

"Funny isn't quite the word I'd use," Andrea said. "But please, go on."

"Well, he was so handsome, and he said all the right things. He always has. Whenever I'm confused about something he always has the right answer. Shouldn't a man always have the right answer?"

The Shaw girls said nothing.

"And he moved out here to Glenoak to be with me. We would be married already, except my Dad--"

"I heard about that."

Lucy looked at Andrea, then at Samantha. "And since then... I don't know. It isn't the same. Then he and Mom set my wedding date."

"Wait," Andrea said. "THEY set it? Didn't you?"

"I've been too preoccupied," Lucy told her. "I want to help... here. Because of Ellen. And I keep wondering..."

"Wondering?"

"If I still love him. He's perfect. He's handsome, and strong, but..."

Her words drifted off and the room went silent save for the Christian Rock.

_"Jesus is the way, and the one, and the truth..._

_"Jesus saves, and heals, and leads us to forgiveness..._

_"And I was saved, my sins forgiven,_

_"By the one, the true, the Christ!_

_"Hall-le-lu-YEAH!_

_"Hall-le-lu-YEAH!_

_"Hall-le-lu-YEAH!_

Samantha leaned forward, finally, and spoke.

"Lucy, you're going to spend the rest of your life with this man. You have to be sure. If you have any doubt..."

Lucy shook her head. "I didn't. But I keep thinking about all the things I used to want, used to want to do. I want to help people, build homes for people who need them, fix things. And I feel like I'm..."

"Like what?" asked Andrea.

"Like I'm too young. I could get married later, in my twenties, right?"

Andrea nodded. She glanced at Samantha, a hard glance, and looked back to Lucy.

"Listen, Lucy," she said. "I don't know you and I don't know Kevin. I got married when I was ready, and when I met a man who was ready. And then we didn't hurry it. We took our time and we made sure. Getting married isn't like the movies or TV. It's a partnership, an equal partnership. Just because a man is handsome and says the right things doesn't mean he's right for you. Does Kevin listen to you? How does he treat other people? Is he gentle with you?"

Lucy's hand went up to her neck again.

We've set a date.

It's time for you to stop thinking you can be Mother Theresa.

Go and change.

Andrea watched, and Samantha watched, as Lucy slowly shook her head. Samantha spoke carefully.

"Lucy, I'm your friend. I don't want to tell you what to do, but I don't think he's right for you."

Lucy sniffled, wiped her eyes.

"But is it too late?" she asked. "They've set a date. How can I leave him now?"

Andrea watched her.

"How can you stay with him, knowing it's wrong?" she asked.


	93. One By One

One By One

-------------------

One by one, they came.

Eric, a bit disheveled in yesterday's clothes, parking his car on the street and back away from the driveway to leave it free, and slipping in the front door, where he was met by Annie, who regarded him with cold eyes. He matched her stare, his own hard now.

"Where were you?" she asked.

"Out," he answered.

"Where?"

"Thinking."

"That's not good enough. I was worried sick. The kids--"

"Too bad."

He went upstairs and she watched him as he did. Locking the bathroom door behind him, Eric showered and stood barechested before the mirror. Beneath his ribs, his heart beat stubbornly.

"You won't let me off the hook, will you?" he asked.

No, came the silent answer.

Do your best.

He changed into fresh clothes and slipped quietly downstairs and into his office, turning on his stereo and pulling the earphones on. A short time later Annie appeared.

"I'm going out," she said. "Shopping. The twins are playing behind the sofa. Keep an eye on them."

He nodded.

--------

One by one.

Lucy, her gaze down. Even as she had spoken with Samantha and Andrea there had been the sense that she could not stay, that the two of them had things of their own to discuss, that something was different, not quite right, over there. She saw the electric car pull out of the driveway as she reached the sidewalk, but her wave to her mother went unanswered and she stepped up to the front door and inside. From behind the couch she could hear the twins playing, jabbering gospel lyrics to one another as they always did.

David: "Must Jesus bear the cross alone, and all the world go free?"

Sam: "No, there's a cross for everyone, and there's a cross for me."

She listened for a few minutes, remembering them as infants, remembering them as she sang to them, as they always quieted to the sound of her voice. It was her bond with them, a thing that the three of them shared, and she remembered how it had brought the beauty of gospel hymns back into her own life.

When had she last sung outside of church? Kevin always looked impatient when she did, so she had stopped. She sang softly now.

_"Heal us, Emmanuel, hear our prayer;_

_"we wait to feel thy touch;_

_"deep-wounded souls to thee repair,_

_"and Savior, we are such."_

The two heads popped up from behind the sofa, saw her and smiled. She smiled back and stepped into the kitchen. Having not had lunch, Sam and David followed her.

--------

One by one.

He had seen her cross the street from his perch by the window, the same window where he remembered seeing Ellen hide her secret. It occurred to him that he needed to start focusing on Franklin again, needed to set the punk up with some porn or something, and he felt a bit of irritation that this had been put off. Franklin had been moody since his sister disappeared, and this was beginning to get on Kevin's nerves.

After the wedding he would deal with that.

But for now it was Lucy, stepping from the Shaw house and across the street, waving at her mother in the electric car as she did. Kevin did a quick bit of thinking; Simon and Ruthie were at school, and the twins would be with their mother. And Annie had told him that Eric was gone.

Lucy, home alone. Perfect.

Kevin sheathed his sword and stood, still in his uniform, and with a rugged smile on his face he made his way downstairs and through the back door, into the kitchen.


	94. Wedding Plans

Wedding Plans

----------------

She saw him there as she entered, and her heart went cold.

Something in his eyes as he regarded her.

Lucy inhaled deeply as he smiled, and for a few seconds she hesitated. Was this right, what she was about to do? There were always dangers in the world, she knew, dangers she had been warned against, things like secular humanists and atheists and the wrong kinds of Christians. The kinds of people who spoke with silver tongues, who led you astray. She knew these kinds of people, had seen them her whole life, had seen as they became unwed mothers or alcoholics, all the while claiming that there was nothing wrong.

And she remembered long ago, when she had watched her father minister to them and decided she would too.

Is this wrong? Lucy Camden thought.

He loves you. He has always said he loves you.

Mom and Dad approve.

Do you want to end up like Mary? Alone?

Kevin stepped forward and Lucy stiffened.

Andrea's words were close, and Samantha's look. These were not the dirty, broken people her father helped back to God. These were Christians, from a good family, and more than this Lucy had seen the good in each of them, the wisdom of what they had said.

_How can you stay with him if you know it's wrong?_

Kevin was close now. His arms went around her, his lips finding hers. Lucy remembered all the times she had kissed, all the boys, the way it had felt to be close to them. Melting in their arms, their breath warm against her lips, the shiver of pleasure that had always run through her. It had been this way with Kevin for so long.

But not now.

Now she trembled. He noted this, drew back.

"What is it?" he asked.

She tried to speak, failed. There was too much, too much of a need to explain, too many words she didn't have. His voice grew hard.

"Tell me, Lucy. What is it?"

Breathe, she told herself. Breathe. You can do this.

"Kevin, the wedding …."

He chuckled behind his handsome smile, ran a hand over her hair affectionately.

"Don't you worry about that," he told her. "We've set a date, remember?"

She shook her head.

"No … Kevin, I can't …."

His tone changed, just a bit, just enough.

"Can't?"

She reached for his hand, pulled it gently away. "Kevin, please. I've been thinking …."

His face changed then, the softness he always wore suddenly gone.

"Thinking?"

"I don't think I can. I don't think it's right."

His hand pushed hers away and she felt as his fingers laced themselves through her hair.

"You don't think you can what?"

She gasped softly as the fingers tightened.

"Please," she begged. "I'm sorry."

His voice was crisp, distinct, each syllable precisely intoned as he pulled her head back.

"You don't think you can what, Lucy Camden?"

Her voice was a whimper now, seeming distant as she trembled. He was different suddenly, or maybe not. This flashed through her mind as she pulled at his hand, as he tilted her back until his face was over hers, his eyes wide with something she had never seen before, or maybe she had but never knew it.

"I'm sorry …." she moaned. "I can't …."

Understanding flashed over his features then.

"Marry me?"

"Please, Kevin … I'm sorry."

The fingers tightened, pain now rippling through her scalp. He pulled her close and she could almost smell his rage as he breathed. "I've given you my life," he hissed. "I came out here to be with you. And this is how you repay me?"

His free hand was at her throat, caressing gently there as she had seen him do with his guns and his swords. She was weeping now in the sudden terror as he brought his lips close.

"Now you listen, Lucy Camden. You listen to me. On June 14 you are going to put on a pretty white wedding gown and you are going to walk down the aisle to me, and you are going to say 'I do.' You are going to swear to God and Christ that you will obey me and honor me for the rest of your life, any way I want you to. Do you understand me, Lucy Camden?"

She tried to cry out, tried to struggle, but his hand was strong and she still felt the other at her throat, warning her to be silent. And Lucy felt as Kevin pulled her down, one inch and then another and then another, until she was kneeling before him on the cold tile of the kitchen floor.


	95. Jailhouse Rock

Jailhouse Rock

--------------

It was Bach just now, the perfect notes in perfect order, and Eric had closed his eyes to let them flow over him. It had been too long since he had enjoyed a moment like this, just the music and the peace it brought him. They wrote for God, he had once heard one of his professors say all those years ago in Seminary. And if you listen closely, you can hear God's heart beating as it is played.

Not all of faith must be a challenge. Sometimes it comes by just letting it in.

Sometimes it can give you a moment's peace when nothing else will.

Annie was far from his thoughts right now, the cold look on her face as he had come in fading even now. He would have to deal with it eventually, would have to make it clear to her that this was not right, what she had done. She tries too hard, he told himself. She tries to make everything all right, and she has to understand that it's not okay to force things.

He thought of Mary then, remembered back to the phone call from school, the words of the principal: Your daughter just shoved some kid's head into a toilet.

Eric had tried to stifle his laugh. That was Mary. There was a strength there he had forgotten, even in the worst of it, and it was, he realized, one of the million and million reasons he loved her.

But had he said so?

Girls, he had always been told, need control. They're not like us, like men. They need a guiding hand, through God and through their father. They don't understand the danger their own bodies bring, the risks. These had been his own father's words, given again and again until they seemed almost natural.

And Eric remembered calling his father. I don't know what to do, Dad. It's Mary. She's out of control.

The tone in his father's voice had been cold. Why?

I don't know.

But his father had. The unspoken words were still there, always.

You are weak, Eric. Send her to me.

And he had.

I'm sorry, Mary. I'm so sorry I sent you away. I was wrong.

The Bach built toward a crescendo and Eric felt his hands moving, keeping time with the music, letting go.

It was only then that he felt the small hand tug on his sleeve.

-------

He opened his eyes and looked down. It was Sam there, David beside him. Eric smiled as Sam tugged on his sleeve again.

"Hello, boys," Eric said, pulling off his earphones.

They spoke, one and then the other.

"The warden threw a party in the county jail," Sam said.

"The prison band was there and they began to wail," David added.

Eric chuckled. So they had graduated from Gospel to The King.

"Let's rock, everybody, let's rock," they added in unison. "Everybody in the whole cell block was dancin' to the jailhouse rock."

Eric tensed, felt a shiver. The King.

There's trouble coming, Eric. He spoke to his sons.

"The girl next door went a'walking; She knew it wasn't right; She came home at half past ten; Late every night."

They nodded, not smiling. Sam tugged at his sleeve again as he spoke.

"Number forty-seven said to number three: You're the cutest jailbird I ever did see."

"Everybody in the whole cell block was dancin' to the jailhouse rock," David repeated.

Eric rose. The shiver came again and he followed as Sam tugged him toward the door, toward the kitchen. Only there, halfway across the living room, did he stop again.

Familiar voices were coming from just beyond. Familiar voices and unfamiliar words.

"Please, Kevin …."

He thought of his heart as it began to race.

Hold up, he begged it as he stepped forward and through the door. Kill me later if you have to, but not now.


End file.
